pelvis,and knees. The dark mahogany

ofyour skin blending perfectly with

theother furniture.

Charmed

WhenI finally emerge from my rickety,

woodenhouse, the light has already moved on.

Thismakes my image soft

onthe doorstep as I slip my kid gloves

overmy fingers one by one.

Fromhere I look down through

theconstellations circulating as if in cream.

Thewren and nuthatch lift my skirt hem

fromthe mud and I’m ready

todescend. There is a machine

thatdelivers me from here to there

withexpediency and care. Anything I wish for

itplaces in my hand miraculously.

Itsvoice is the voice of one hundred hounds

singingnoel, and its arms are the bleeding

armsof trees. I do my shopping

withpleasure, and my hat gives a little nod

tothe other hats, and my knees curtsy

tothe knees. All the dainties

arewhisked away into a linen sack

forlater. As evening falls the streets empty

andwindows, like one hundred movie screens,

beginto glow. A young boy follows me

throughthe lanes at twenty paces, ringing

hisbell so I never feel alone.

Calendar

IfI wait long enough

betweenthe rusted trees

whereyoung mothers take their sons walking

Iknow they will

airliftin the crates of books.

Therewill be Proust and Flaubert,

theRussians, ancient religious texts,

andfrom Poland a calendar

ofgourds. I imagine myself turning over

thepages:

eachpage a picture each picture a ripe or carved out womb

witha lighted candle each page a month I will burn through.

Ienvy the boy holding

hismother’s hand in the woods. 

Ihave a body made hard by work

inother people’s homes.

Acurve. A crooked

jaw.Pockets full of moths.

Graybeard. I don’t want

children,no, I want to be a child.

Ifyou look for a new house

youmust consider

theprevious tenants, the price.

Myhead used to have so much space in it,

asky with white birds darting

likeshooting stars.

NowI’m more like a machine: furniture

boltedto the floor. But

mymother.

                      But an old man.

Ibecame an old man so early. 

TheArtist’s Boy

Thesofa rises like a horse

fromits side in the yellow room.

Wood-smokeand ink saturate air,

obscuring,dividing shape

fromshape. One could fade

intothe scenery near the glow

ofhis floating hair, this

perfectbaby. Somewhere,

rainslicks up Main Street,

anda man bicycles home

ina navy coat, pushing his hat

intothe gray. His whiskers are

dampas a dog’s. Flowers tornado

topavement as he whirs past—

comingfrom, going to,

acertain place. The child

wishesa room into existence

andit’s there. Walls yellow, furniture

warmas a mare. Somehow,

whenyou see him all nervousness

subsides.Little mouth blowing

onyour cheek, those eyes

thatseem but painted on his eyes.

Ophelia

Indreams, a writing tablet signifies a woman, since it receives

theimprint of all kinds of letters.      -Artemidorus

Iresisted the story so long and thus

believed,unconsciously, its opposite—

amirror of what I hated, which was

nobetter you see. Flesh and hair

soghostly you could read the veins.

Idredged the pond till my joints

gavemy bones away. Just a few

stickscomposed in the muck,

shelteringa school of fish. Now,

Ithought, at least I can be useful.

Ifyou have a voice, don’t

wasteit on opinions. Let the evening

audiencefind you each time as if

bychance. First, a swath of matted

hair,and then the rest: a foal

proppedup and hesitant.