At the Bridge
The baby is four days old
and I am running along the river
at dusk, stitched together,
bleeding. Like a shell
the body opens and the baby
emerges, Botticelli’s Venus—
ears flat disks no larger
than nickels, fingers blanched
and wrinkled, larval.
In the tunnel, the faint smell
of something burned or burning
echos on the steel walls.
My feet disturb the path.
How long can I last,
unhinged? Someone has a doll
shaped like me. Someone
is pushing in pins. A baby cries
in the willow thicket
and a white bird rises, eyes me
and cries again, fish bent
in its curved beak. At the bridge
I run between two angry girls.
One yells you better
find it or I’ll kick your ass—
and the other stares
me down as if I have it,
whatever it is.
An Apology
Along the stone walls
the calla lilies
have each begun to unfold
one white sheet
freckled with pollen,
and I have begun to envy them.
Last night I watched a girl
across the street catch fireflies
in her cupped hands
and smear their light
along the wall
in phosphorescent streaks.
She wrote her name,
or someone’s.
How could she not
remind you of me,
her cruelty so irrelevant,
so intent on preservation?
