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Facing The
World
First
I heard about
the bear that
scavenged
for
food inside
a packed sled
that slid
across
miles while
the sun shone
eternally its
patient
gas
body glowing
day and night.
Ate my Belgian
Chocolates
until I became
the bear dancing
from satiation
and
glory.
Here
on Elsmire Island,
a ring seal
pierces the
ice
to
breathe, carves
her lair into
innocent drifts
of snow.
I
am not there.
Always here,
my
bay window,
facing tedious
slog.
There
is ice and there
is hunger. More
than
I imagine.
Though
I am Jin of
the failing
heart fractured
from
hunger and buses.
Or Niszmary
all 36 pounds
fading
inside my step
father’s fist.
Why
do I want to
slip into them,
walk, dress,
breathe
like
them, become
her breasts,
her mouth, her
dreams,
his
legs, his penis,
his mouth, his
saline arm
rushing
toward his wounds?
Who
will we love
before our hearts
break?
If
I stand perfectly
still, the light
at my window
is perfect.
Bombs Away
Outside
my window the world is falling.
First
the leaves followed by stars,
then sky,
maybe
snow. Well, yes, the snow.
And
then, of course, bombs.
Bombs?
Well, what I know
are
not bombs, per se, though
this
morning in slippers and
robe
I
perused the morning papers
and
wondered: Why is that child—
“Brown
as a berry, my Joanna Banana”—
skipping
towards detonation while
men
assemble
with tact and persuasion,
discuss
bombs over coffee—or tea?
My
own life falls away.
What
is left? Husks of hope or
at least
two
feet that move me towards
something—
even
my own life falling away.
More
than her sliced body will
know.
Somonka
: Elsa
I am writing to you
from my body that remains
here at home unharmed.
I don’t want to disappear
like you who wasted away.
Please tell my daughter
I did not want to leave her.
Does any mother?
Looking down on earth today
I miss her moon moth eyes.
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