Not only was the not only present, I was not my only self, but the self that only had just begun to be herself–and that’s when the not only present had itself become itself.
They will say, I hate to admit it, but I liked her writing better before she got sick.
But the honesty!
No one wants that, and the potholes, the god-feared look of “having”
one wants to wish their lives lasted long enough to drink again
and again, you asked if I looked up, hooked my leg on a fence-post, saw skies
more alarmed at having been a sky
and not one of us, or my eyelash–no, I have looked
only for things in pockets, such as your watch, or a canary-feather
left over when on New Years so many things had children, minutes
apart—lovers lost their case-by-case arguments, dropped to see
whose kiss they were laughing into– what other ladybugs might be living
in so-and-so’s teeth. I told myself to call you
but friend, undo yourself and then get back to me.
Reflection of Other–
Understand, nothing she understood was mistaken for taking
the understanding from your hands, but understandably,
so-and-so was quite upset at what she understood, mistakenly.
To answer your question, no I never learned about perrineals.
Though my bay window may, if I’m lucky, hold a thousand each spring in its eye-socket,
Lord, you should have seen the underthings they’ve got–perinnials–
root-toes two metres long, I swear it! Yours, S–
The Other Questions–
Did she write most days, or, when feeling ill, did she want other things, say
cantelope in the sunshine–did Otherthings take note of her
exact choice of words–mathematics?
I heard numbers–as lovers– occupied her bay window– ants on a biscuit, jammed
with honey and other hack-eyed-creature-curated
suppose mathematics and hive-construction go hand-in-hand, tortoise and mouse, that sorta thing.
On the Corner, Remembering Her Walk–
Perennials? No, not in this shop, love. Take yourself
down to the corner, I have a friend there named so-and-so.
Mad about things like that. Catch her
stone-like at the bay window most days,
equations teetering in her hands, like so–
Her Address, pt. II–
Before the sickness was sick of itself, her self was sick of the itself it became in herself–and it was itself only when most like a self that was herself, sick.
Reflection of Other II
Before she got sick, she stuck things in her blue jeans–
pockets filled with letters from them, or so-and-so,
a phone bill from the time minutes belonged to an ex,
before the plane-ness of mornings left its handle of jack
on the corner as a reminder that soon, Nothing had itself hooked
to the back of her head like lamp-things, but dark.
When she got sick, Nothing crept itself inside her to quit–
not a monastery–her body– but can it be? she asked,
can the wholeness of everything be under the weather and into my
pockets–underness and overness understood
by a solar system that’s ready for its nonchildren, red-dwarf by red-dwarf,
can hospitals be belligerent, drunk, piss themselves before they love themselves and give all to God?
Her Address, pt III–
2) in a list like this, I’d say the only thing, mind you, that minds itself into a whirl is a friend who took herself too seriously, called the opposite its counterpart
and I, well, she called me crazy and understandably, for I
snipped up her favorite clothes because I wanted to,
and the slumber party was boring,
and in moments such as those, hidden, taking a secret like that tastes like steel,
shot up like angel-joy, through the circular of girl-wholeness.
That dress, well, I wanted it. But instead, cut holes in it.
Laugh about that now, angel-gods, woman-god, watch
I’ll tear myself into that memory and be done with it. If I could warn every girlfriend now–
how land-hurt their body can be by me–myself a grounded plane–sick
understand this: under the lichen-hold–a man I owned once, but swallowed.
The Other Reflects Upon Reflection of Her–
You’ll be tempted, I’m sure, to categorize her symptoms, like boxes of glow-worms–
and shouldn’t we all stand here, tempted to catch her outing herself out–
land-hold-under-things—what Dr really knows the mind,
but to punch-hole charts, you’ll be tempted, boxed glow-worm, you are.
Further from Other–
Noted: alleluias in the morning–
Perennials in the bay window, scathing
at the site of the canary, held between
her mouth–understand–her mouth
carried sailors to God and back again
though her body wore itself into thin
paper–might as well called home,
as in a horse’s eye-bone, coal
twisted round an underness, pissed
it couldn’t glimpse into itself
before learning the mathematics of hungry.