Myself a Shelter

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.

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