my arm sprawled on the edge of the bed
and started--whose was it? A prickling as of
a ghost limb yet my arm lay there--I tried
to sit up, but my elbow buckled and I fell
back into that haze of who am I?
Today will be empty, I thought with annoyance,
and no poem will prophesy another world for me
to enter as it turns over the stories of depression
that now belong to someone else, someone
whose arm still cradles her head, her skull
filled with wobble that makes her afraid to stand.
That body stretched down my bed, flaccid
and pale, doesn't want to travel, doesn't care
to make itself into suppleness so it can
flex and float out to the river under my window.
Down there is someone's pubic hair, someone's
beautiful beard and bony assemblage, the hum
of erotic arousal, and how can I stop it?
Look down: everything is disguised but it still
isn't mine: and the country inside is unknown,
unknowable, stippled light under pines
from the shimmering moon, symbolic clothes
of some animal married to another animal.
(First appeared in Bayou.)
Mary will be reading in Fort Collins, Colorado, this Friday, April 18th, with Lisa Zimmerman, from Fort Collins, and Veronica Patterson from Loveland. See calendar for details!