Three distinct tableaus emerging:
what we can imagine, what
thought (falsely) believes it returns to.
Caveats: I am not broad
I am not a vast expanse.
There is (recorded somewhere) a perfect ratio
of shoulders to hips, with no hope
of denying the feminine.
I
Boxing on formica floors I dared to
conjure stars rising like weak or cheap perfume
above my open eyes and nose;
felt the rebuke of stray sounds,
nudged blue ghosts, hung soiled
sheets in disbelief.
II
In games I lost faith too:
watching shadows on the wall
depicting backgammon or chess—
fetching balls among the rocks.
III
Behind the door I caged a
curse; chanced your coming and
delighted under rising and falling
hips and throats and thrushes—
calvaria, candida.
