Rather than spiritual enrichment, grounding in Dostoevsky,
chopping the onions with heart and attention rather than
mere lust for an end, replacing the Cure with choral chants for the
baby, listening when others speak and four days a week minimum the Bible;
remembering that the other person is me and not some demon, noticing
what is actually there and yielding to beautiful people on DVDs:
I gawk at omens, obsess about the spillings which made my body taste strange and
left the imprint of straining to listen to somebody's slow and
rage-inducing, possibly spiritless
words, eyes that don't look up and, deciding alea jacta est, /
the grand Karma fruition cannot now be reversed: plot a Bible
belt escape, hinging all hopes on the good pro-life army, the busybodies and the
little blades (dare I say bulbs?)of good intention pushing through.
I pass gas defiant in crinkled maternity shirt and hugely broad hugely tacky
silver space belt; some inexplicable striped vest I straddle the
best of both worlds, still lithe with burgeoning
breasts stain the, pillow with berries
the sprain turning the color of the tank-top dyed torso we all thought in our
mock concern was rare blood disease, preoccupations landing in their proper
drawers after a few brief resurrections: silly little dying gasps, both petty and,
as spectacles, remarkable: like flat-ish children's stones thrown into the water
But this, isn't
a poem.
