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It comes from that voice dogs can hear, the glass-

breaking high C that makes life sylphlike.

Of course sylphlike’s

for pussies. If I say I want a dancer’s body,

I don’t want to dance: I want to be lithe,

lasting a little longer to take in

the traffic jams. I don’t want to look inward,

reflect on, stare at my reflection, nail

another deer on the mantle. Be indelible—

all cobble and boarded-up windows.

Dear reader, I left cupboards open

for your perusal. So trespass my secrets:

I have never cast the petulance aside,

not even just sat with that humlessness.

Can I call that my own personal abyss?

I’m not exempt, I’m no special case, I won’t

go around with scissors and a razor blade,

cutting into things, inspecting, shutting down

the operation. I don’t want to say nimbus

when I mean shotgun. Or be my friend

when I mean slip it in. Penthouse,

when I mean pent-up house.

from True FaithFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2012
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Published in Ira Sadoff Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.