I.
I choose to live in the spaces
carved by the sharpness
of your absence.
It’s not what you think.
Neglect becomes me, my desire
gathers and elongates so that
if our shoulders should touch
when we walk, you know,
accidentally,
the heat in me catches
like a burner. And you can see
a small opening between
my lips where it escapes.
II.
My plants are dying a little
every day. First the tall palm
in the entryway. Then the others,
one by one, like a slow
moving disease. Plants
can be victims. People tell me
they may be root bound,
but I am not that kind
of girl: I did what I could
with water but I am not
going to get my hands
dirty.
III.
What is the sound
of attachment? I thought
I had a cool eye on my
portals to illusion,
but I didn’t expect you
to slip in under cloak
of kind words, good deeds.
And there I was again, in
the middle of the night,
hugging walls, hearing
strains of bagpipes, the Irish
ones you hold close
to your body.
Thirteenth Moon, A Feminist Literary Magazine, Volume XVIII, 2003
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