TWO BODIES TOUCH IN THIS POEM
Maybe the bodies in this poem are my body:
one now in my office chair looking occasionally at night.
One when I cried and cried
myself sick in the groaning hours of grief.
I barely remember my body then, but I’m sure
I had one. The milk of memory is thick,
but somehow I only see my tired hands,
my ribs and, hear me, I had far too many ribs.
They multiply with sadness—each bone honeycomb
and bees flew from my mouth.
That body is foreign to me right now
in this moment. I’m looking through that door:
all my bodies line up like country men
in the French hills ready to cascade
through tall grass. Somewhere I am still small.
Somewhere my tongue is in my beloved’s mouth
for the first time, his hand on my back.
Somewhere I am old with wisps of hair braided
and bones again. These days my poems are all
bones and neck and I-am-in-grief-lost-in-time.
I can never anchor. Somewhere I am the anchor
and freshwater lungs; blue-gill swim in circles
around me. Once I swam in the sun: hair whirling
out, alone—tiny lake-dust pillowing up,
light on my greenskin—hum of water-silence:
alone in that body then—and now, right now.I’M SORRY IT HURT; I’M SORRY YOU WERE ALONE
How long did you breathe shallow
Did you breathe shallow
Did panic grab you
Where did panic grab you first
Where did you feel it last
Which part was warm
Did you remember
Do you remember
Did you know your heart was stopping
Where did it hurt
How could I know
How can I know
Why did you lay on your left side
Did you think of that New Year’s Eve when I wore
stripes and you a blue collared shirt and a friend
grabbed a picture of us smiling, your hand
on my hip, your head tilted, smiling face-
to-face- and all the hope glowing
What is a new year
or a day or even one slim minute without you
I wanted you to get better
What is better now
Where you are
What do you see
I am nearly blind.