took a tumble, came up laughing
with the wrong shoes, and some others
(a terrible group).
I was there
but quietly; I had to learn something
about being female
(bring it back to the milk pond
and chew it).
In the cold season I
put snow on my gums, while the terrible ones
took to the air
water-slick and shining feathers.
The water tastes metallic,
I’ve been craving stone-fruits
to soothe it.
Annnnnnnnnnnnnd, something not-mine that I love:
A poem from Take It, by Joshua Beckman
Red, the want, the body, slowly
all perturbant drapes fall upon your cheek
and you are left here only to look and
to speculate on the first day of any one
thing. Oh world of pills, boats, and
polka dots, how you let me live, that’s all.
A spinning love for some. A staring love
for some. An edifice. A comb. A kind
disquiet. The crew running back and forth.
Have you asked yourself how, with all we
know, we cannot enter the air as smoke
enters, or the lungs f others as smoke
enters. Have you asked yourself great
critical questions of form and matter, how
they will not spill into your day, or
all concentric circles eerily swimming
around you, as if you wish to ever
forget. On Thursday night you will
return from work to find me here,
and then a year, and then all those things
I have to do. A rose bag from which
the light will spill. And for some time
the light will be there and for some time
the empty bag.