Body as a Blue Little Engine

Thumb presses into back, says
you could do thisif you tried, you know,
you could likeit if you wanted, thumb
waves away worry. There is something
living, or dying, in my basement,
and I know it isn’t slime mold,
because I didn’t put it there this time.
Thumb presses into calf, pushes out
the knot, lets me stand back up again,
calf says sorry about that. Says
I will be better, I will, if I try. Thumb
does not care, knows better, will
do its work when needed. My back
was damaged, in the move, from
the nights spent on hardwood, from
the hours of standing and making.
I do not apologize, to or for it, though
thumb digs below shoulder blade, thumb
sings and sings of forgiveness, does not
say anything, not here. Not now.
Your hands on my neck, dutiful and kind,
migraine loose and grainy in the foreground,
I say I could do this, I know. I could like it,
if I tried. If I wanted.

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Upon Trying to Get Out of Bed

There is a small room, in a small house, by the sea, -
dressed in blue and white.
Here my gnarled hand rests beneath yours -
my pinky bent rightwards at 90 degrees,
just like my grandmother’s.
In this room rests every bright thing.
 

My body, yes my body, is the place where I live.
Where I will always live, unfortunately
for you. But there is a bright place,
and someone by my side -
a hand, laid over a hand.
Not a consolation, no prize awaiting me
at the end of a life well lived.

 

Only an open window. Only the sea,
softly thrumming, indifferent -
in this room we sit and listen.
In this room we do not need to go
anywhere else at all.

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Notes on a Constant Process

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I run my tongue along the inside of my teeth, imagine
that I can taste the white they should be.
I love you, and I say this. I imagine
we can both taste it, in the air, like syrup.
Like cigarette smoke, like the acrid burning
of old rubber. I left my snot on the inside
of your coat, and you leave very little behind.
There is nothing I can say here that I have not already said,
and you know this, and you listen anyway,
our limbs twisted into trees, growing slowly,
roots mingled and unseen. I love you and let it sink
into the sharp scent of Pine-Sol, into the solid work
of arms and days and years which stretch out backwards.
You know this. You wrote it out for us to see.

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Cucumbers in an Unknown Season

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I’m thinking of driving to Pennsylvania.
I’m thinking of driving my poor self down
to that state park, in the snow, where my brother
was once rescued off a rock, his calf
bloody, the river around him indifferent.
Where I only watched, bruised, on the bank.
I’m thinking of the turnpike, of the Alleghenies,
of bouncing ecstatic in the bitch-seat, raising
my shrill voice in concert with anothers.
Yes, I would like to go walking in the morning heat,
to giggle over an in-joke I no longer know,
to wake once more beside another body
with no hesitation, only my own long hair
caught in my throat. I would like to drive myself
back to the place where I learned how to get hurt,
to go there and teach myself something
impossible and new.