A FINAL SHOPPING LIST
that which can be.
that which cannot.
the end of the day.
the heat at my neck.
the inside of his mouth.
the mother skirt.
hot sidewalk by the DMV.
the buzz in my head.
the fear running up the side of it.
other kinds of balms.
whatever the children want.
Of men: Walked through the dark: jogger behind me: "overcoat of clay" (Dickinson)
Of gravity: And if I were to release my hold.
Of mirrors: The enigma of looking into one's own eyes as if the eyes of another: the "sudden appearance of the unavailable." (Nancy)
Of insanity: "The rhythmic range of words fills me with horror" (Roubaud)
Of home: Majesty and Amber
Of the sun: I cannot break into it, its daily resurrection, daily assault.
Knowledge: I'm on a mission. I cannot stop.
Of work: The white plastic cup top, the cup in its sleeve, my hand on the cup-sleeve, the weight of the full cup.
Of marriage: How are you feeling? What are you thinking? What are you reading? What are you writing? Where are you going?
Sex: The inside of a tree is wet. This music is guided by God.
Of the sun: Where run to?
Of being alone: The inside of my lip is raw. Tastes raw.
Of fatigue: A bird taking flight over and over and over and over. A bird taking flight over and over.
Of speaking: Run to the rock.
Of memories: Sidewalks and trees. Faces and rooms. My mother's voice: "Jula," her name for me, now in permanent disuse.
Of death: Cars at dawn cannot be counted.