“The doctor should be opaque to his patients and, like a mirror, should show them nothing but what is shown to him.” – Sigmund Freud
sagged grapefruit (I blush).
Watching an eclipse through colanders
has an irony I fail to place.
Crawled, up these stairs
‘til you ran out of knee and
cognized the stages of grief by ten green bottles,
hanging on the wattle wall–
five green bottles. No,
metronomes. No, rubbish tips of glassblower
sighs. Playing the
conductor’s bête noire, you ask why.
Through my hair I rub disinfectant and of the
lessons to learn I devour truly. Now
you have seen how to malign microbes,
how to cascade. See it drip
noiseless and blinking. I give no issue.
Again, you asked and round my throat
I gesture because love is without
larynx, without child but not me!
not I! A thinking body which must be to grasp
why your thighs which once were
Eden reap dust like taxes and to
the boss the man gave no
bouquet but threw a shoe
one two and at our feet
shrouds pooled so we looked and
locked away. It’s just collateral, baby.
Would you believe it, would you assemble into
a rich quilt, a thing of beauty. Some
time I stepping
backward will cry out truth,
applauding the needle into my bone crux,
with confidence and unconsidered body.
Anyway, we (the worst kind of feeble) return
to petrol stations: I did not know then
to give out larynxes like sweets, crude futures
fashioned. I learned
styrofoam is ninety five parts air
and kills by choking, millennia
after becoming – would you believe
(chemistry makes poetry). Would you,
bone of my bone, walk
unfettered through the orchard
schlepping gowns for christening.
Until then: fill up the tank,
bawl the orchard,
above all give out and do this
because because because.