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