lll

where I am not

I sit in a chair
not facing the window
I have no quarrel with windows
as such 

windows are good to have
but tonight there is no reason 
to look out of one
let me explain that 

I am not myself
earlier when I passed a mirror 
instead of a face I saw 
a nose 

a freckle 
an eye 
disconnected features 
which if put together 

would look put together 
and on the wrong face
because it's 
in the wrong place

and the window it 
won't look out of 
nearly a destination away 
from almost there
 

contagious

for the first time today 
I'm alone and that's okay 
because I'm in a weird mood 
and my siamese is still a 
little bit in heat which is like 
saying ice is a little bit cold

for 4 nights now 
she's kept me awake 
and any sleep I've gotten 
has been laced with erotica 
as if her burning desire 
to be fucked has become 
my burning desire to be fucked 
bitten on the back of the neck 
then left to writhe about 
in satin sheet 
aftermath contortions 
purring from the inside out
 

the cats are in the other room

and I am in this one 
thinking to myself 
how little upon proximity 
love depends
preferring such foundations 
as the unexpected jolt of 
recognition from afar
a spiritual magnetism 
of like to like 
and how that one moment 
of subtle connectivity 
does not begin so much
as it begins to continue 
and not only in one direction 
but in all of them
until the assumption 
of prior emptiness 
can no longer be sustained 
but dissolves into a 
certain fullness 
right in the heart of things
 

when the body speaks in negatives

you know how the body
curves under clothing 
the shape of her breast
and the texture of her skin
you have no reason to believe
anything has changed 
but there is a difference
having little to do with 
how white the thighs
or freckled the arms

the faint scent of amber
is what you smell not
lust rising in waves to
intoxicate and she will turn
away busy herself in books
go somewhere you can't go
never having been there
with her before and

she's not passing out maps
or giving directions
she's not watching to
see if you follow
and the sound your hand
makes touching her
hurts like an awful noise
 

Grief Parameters
for Janetta Brown Barkdull, 1962 - 1998

so we left 
her there after
saying goodbye
with final lingering
touches upon her 
closed casket

in the letter
written before
she died she
asked us not
to cry for her
but from the
looks of things
not many of us
were able to
oblige

in the car
we couldn't
help but notice
how alone we were 
together in our grief

how together we were
alone in our grief

What I Am Wondering

I am wondering if this body is mine.  

Walking down the street it occurs to me I do not feel at home in this body.
While it is true I was never particularly fond of the one I was born in, at
least like some favorite article of clothing it had become familiar to me.  I
was used to its peculiarities, the hungers it manifested, what it liked to
gaze upon.

This is not my body.  Observe the third freckle on the left arm; that was
never there before, I'm sure of it.  And the hair.  Although it might fool
someone else, I can feel the difference in texture and I can feel it growing,
in the way the dead must surely be aware on some level that parts of their
bodies go on.  If I am not careful, this hair will overwhelm me and I will be
nothing but a pair of eyes peeking out through a veil of darkness; even this
new body is not large enough to support such abundant weight.     

The nipples on this body I find myself in are erect.  They are standing out
with the visibility of two stars in a night sky.  I find myself wanting to
touch them but do not wish to take too many liberties with this body since it
does not belong to me.  Were I in my room at home, though, I would investigate
between my legs the warm throbbing which distracts me as I walk along, so that
I stumble, awkward in this body which is not mine, into your arms.  

You seem familiar with this body; the grip of your hands on its wrists is a
firm one, impossible to break away from.  I cannot see you, I will not look at
you, the hair on my head covers you and you wrap yourself inside it to make us
both blind.  Neither of us speaks.  If these nipples were mine I would mention
how your mouth, shaped to a thirsty o, seeks them out, and how I groan as if,
indeed, I feel what this body feels, but they are not mine, they have become
yours, and your tongue upon them is the lick of a slow flame, so I am sure of
nothing, except you are who you say you are, although this puzzles me, since I
cannot recall your having said anything at all.  

You are writing poetry upon my thigh, line by line - you are telling me about
the moon, and that we should look up at it while there is still time.  You are
telling me about the tide, and how it changes things, and you are telling me
this body is my own, that I am inside it and you would like to be inside it,
also.  I look upward at the moon while there is still time.  You climb inside
me while there is still time.  I forget my name and remember yours.  Just in
time my body remembers your eyes are blue.  When you close them, they will
still be blue.  

And when you open them, I will still be me, wondering if this body is mine.