I love this body

the way it things and flattens.
The way its desk is a mess
today, but not always.
The way it cries when
an old woman can dream
of making love to a limping
young man and rewind in slow
motion and fast forward in slow
motion a man making love
to a woman he realizes is not
a woman, not sure what she is,
and falling compelled toward
her in a taxi anyway. This body
could touch itself, but won’t,
awaiting its lover, love. This body
whose breasts have fed
and sag and wait for kiss,
tongue, lips, fingertips. Its hair
keeps growing without it knowing
it grows. The body shaves and trims it,
plucks. This play of skin and hair and limb
and organsong. In tune and out,
sometimes eating hotdogs and gods.
Whatever I is wants
to wake up here, hear
the mumbling hundred eight pigeons
on the cornice of the abandoned blonde
brick school, see pixels through wings
of the mayfly in July, remember Joseph Brodsky,
feel its liver creak with wine made by
its ex-husband given with hopeful sad eyes,
watch people watching through lenses, stop
wanting change and loving this all at once.
Or doing both with bliss. So new, it reaches
for a light switch that has never been
in the same old house in which it lives.


Leave a Reply