All day I gather signs: my scars shine,
a rope ladder hangs from a bolted window,
in the corner store a shimmering robe
drapes a headless, hollow monster
and I still think of your body.
On my table a ladybug searches
for someplace to cram herself
like a note she didn’t want to know
she’d written. It only gets dark
half the sky at a time. An hour later,
my watch, glowing, hasn’t moved.
Earlier, I think, the river showed me
places to disappear but it was fooling itself,
the river wasn’t going anywhere. Impossible
to cut out your own heart but if you do,
maybe you’ll grow another.
Copyright © 2011 Dean Young
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.