someone at side, though i have always felt
to be walking alone. not wanting of a
conversation that veers sharply this way
((towards you, away from you, & back & back again))
my mother who despises my indian tea
my mother the madwoman, the equal of me
my mother whose predictions i have accepted as myth
whose cigarettes have burnt through the carpet,
whose black shoes, always black, always black
have never been a wonder to me,
with her head to earth &
hands among mars
does this signal
a greater thing?
it would be the weakest of sensibilities
to sieve what i want from uninvited needs,
imposing your lyrical hands onto
the premonitions of a martyr.
for that is all they are. wearing
robes of old, eating until midday,
only a martyr & nothing more.
cutting with my cold, bloodless fingers
lavender from an unbounded shrub that grows
in front of number sixtythree. crushing
with scented fingers the lavender that grows
so fitfully. i stupidly stir you into musings
of summer days, of sillouhettes seen
from above the shore. i madly mix
notions of knotted hands
& knotted eyes. & i, & i
have met the floor
with my knees.