Tonight, I forgot to feed
myself. I blame Barthes
and his Mythologies,
and our Friends.
is a godsend
heeding prayers of achy tummies
since the 1960’s. Viva
Monde MY San!
Should I make coffee too?
But it’s 10 and my
tomorrow starts at 7.
I will skip breakfast,
meal for the wuss not the tardy
Hunger is for the weak—
Now why in the world
am I writing in verses?
Is it the hunger that pushes me
to pull—rather desperately—
a Ginsberg or a Bukowski?
Or even an O’Hara
‘cos I’d really like to have a Coke with
or without fries.
I suck at this, I know,
but even Leav’s bangs has fans
so who knows.
Reminds me of a windy Friday noon
September of last year
when I cut my hair short
really short the strands dangle
like hushed wind chimes
a nervous inch atop my shoulder.
expecting to be the cherubic
yet sultry Lauren Tsai
only to find in the mirror a child
a 10-minute shower later
and she said hola soy Dora
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –
Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –
Because sometimes there are days that call for an Emily Dickinson poem.