Rain. Sun. Pollen rising to a haze
over water and air—another
summer gone, and did a single one
of those sultry evenings stick?
How might I keep just one
of the nights when dancing
pared me to flame?
Someday I’ll be seated alone
with just a few notes floating in my head,
unable to rise unassisted,
and here I go again, letting
the future, like fallen berries,
stick to the soles of my shoes.
The poems I’ve been reading by a woman
who gave all of herself again and again
to love, who let herself fill and empty
like a heart-what came after?
Grief may have paralyzed her for months
yet a fine abandon carries the poems-
a thread, golden, not to be broken.
It wove a net around her body. She sank
into the mesh of it, ripening
and bruising. Now she is alone. Her poems
are alive with lovers. And I can see
in her picture, though her face
has thickened, that she will
always remember being beautiful.
Poem to My Animal Self
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