10 Aug

I must pack she thinks, yet she’s been packing all day.
Knits and wools, darkness, sieves,
clean chonies, chonklas, hair shirts,
memories, blood oranges, tampons,
cat hair, a suede jacket: every piece
of downy fringe she ironed
individually. Bereft
He must think I am made of clay

she thinks and, They are all mad!, anxiety intractable.
Would he give me a chance to say it?

She wonders. If the plane falls from the sky, then what?
She imagines falling ever so slowly, gently,
a smile at her lips, wicked wind, her skirt above her ears,
the sound romantic. But the landing, well now
that would be difficult, wouldn’t it?
Brittle, sound hollow, sounds deathly.

He may shoot at her like a coyote
Bulletproof. But no, not really.
How many times has she told him that
loudly? But the voices, or a voice, his voice
internal, what do they all tell him? Can’t distinguish.
Misinterprets. Is it a sex or gelatin?
Woman or a frog? Cruelty or reality?

Time is coming now but ever so slowly.
Cruel time, runs out, leaves her here alone.
She’s waiting for this time to come, still waiting,
yet it’s not here yet. End of winter, a spring,
all summer, not yet here, as hours creep,
minutes break down and cry.
I must pack. Silks to undress by,
alchemy, fever, whispers and diabolical regret.

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