and everyone wants to read the poem
we’re afraid to write.
Maybe I’m still the mermaid.
Maybe the ocean is your hand.
Yes, it hurts to fall -
ache, tenderness
- but each scar is a sign your system is working.
I can’t relate to your razzle-dazzle, your wish
for voluptuous when my symphony is spanx.
in the corner of the painting of success
the signature is blurred
Sometimes darkness
is the beauty I am made of -
She pours sugar on her life
and drinks the artist’s marrow
in the bone of her glass and she lives.
As I go under, I wonder if there’s a reason for art?