In your wisdom-speak, the dream of boarding up
my room to protect me but the dream, mot mine,
another’s, told to me. Even now will you not
visit, let me hear you. In the river
I am a body not my own, like the man
who, carrying wood, restored windows
for me. I can’t make myself a shelter.
What voices surround the body you gave
and called by name. You called the bird
flying into my windshield—clothed, fed
him—your beloved. You called the death, held
as he passed, his head holy—Why?
Because he chose you, chose nothing
outside himself but you. The body
you gave me drowns in the river
three shoes, a box of cigarettes, laundry,
lost jewelry, the leg of a boar
from the side of the road in Carlsbad.
I call this my creation, not yours. My creation
and earth, no, a dream I had and now, I remember:
I was able to kill and speak and run in a dress
through a field, untouchable by sex, lace,
Anything, resembling guilt, glitter, grace.