Following Close Behind
Moment by moment spring smears
and she leans back in the deep winter,
loving its cold, its dark.
Real people encase her with their abstruse faith,
their cockeyed weather view,
all from the TV, sprayed on all of us,
a feature presentation intimate with the majority
a language, common
one that we assume has a real similarity
amongst all of us.
But all of us smear like the spring
that will not come until the deep experience
of a snowdrift, locks the feet, like sand on the beach
All of us.
She has lost the spring, has opted for frozen sap,
the dead wall stare, as someone else has written.
She can’t be sure, but she thinks it is already gone
and the bloom was withered before she even knew
she was a flower. A rose? A white roe? Too sappy.
A stinking geranium all her life. Move one petal
and the whole room skunks. But she was not the first
to say that either.
Spring smears like henna in a bathtub, heading for the drain
green, pee yellow as it breaks like mud.
She is hynotized by it, loves its going, follows close behind
And the others try their good. They stick to her like obligations.
Their love is a scared one that need not be.
She is not afraid. Why should they be?
It will eat her like the night eats shadow,
lose delineation like her flesh in the office,
like her flesh with a deep cut.
May she introduce it? It waits for an introduction.
It has the power to wait for a long time,
so, go ahead, only if you feel ready.
Ready. It is Killher. And it is the right hand. The left punishes
the right because it has tried for so many years to kill
her. Again, too sappy. Like a white rose.
Sibby would not write like this. Nor Anne.
So what is your point? Destruction is a simple thing.
Not worthy of a poem. The going, the exploring. Who
would want to know?