But one more waking from a distracting headache
and the distracting ache of guilt, the overwhelming colors
of need, the headache of logistics descending
like rain over new-shorn hair, so short
because I have the eyes and am on the inside like
an infant. New and new to everything.
Lost and lost to the past: I ran away. I was like
an animal in that way, in how I ran, and I have thrown away
photographs for the stifling disservice they do this
Love me for this shivering jelly or don’t.
I will not care very much as I run away. Richly,
I consider the aspects of my body and
the way they touch other bodies: sometimes.
I’m a bergamot or a pomander or some heavy
laying love down and paying my tithe.
And there is a difference between lying
and being wrong. I’ve been wrong and
wrong as I was wronged, I’ve even been right
and found in hindsight I was not. I have loved
the crown of hair, the head in the lap, the face
between knees, the little polyester slip,
I’ve baked cookies, made madeleines with
delicate orange, the fantasy of crawling away,
I’ve been pulled back by the hinge of my high-heel.
Skin has lain before me like a country mile.
I’ll undress you and dress you up
in vapor. (How much can language conjure?)
I’ll leave and leave a small space in my wake.
(It can be a face between the knees.)
I’m not frightened, not trying to talk about
water- not trying to talk about time.
I am laying love down like a laminated
card, with a heart,
like a quilt, like a dollar
I am paying my tithe