IF THOSE BLOSSOMS DON’T COME

 

if the tangerine doesn't

fill the house with thick

sweetness. If you put

your hands over your

ears one more time

when I'm talking. If

there's another month

of wanting to sleep all

day, the cat the warmest

sweet thing I can imagine.

If this damn rain doesn't

let up, I'm going to

have to rewrite the story

you’ve got in your head

about us and I don't

think you will like

the ending

 

DO I REALLY HAVE TO WRITE  ABOUT

WHAT SEEMS MOST SCARY?

 

Isn't it enough I've fought against

it with ballet classes every day,

often more than one? Do I have

to tell you about the letter

from a woman who says, "Now

in the gym the men stop looking"?

Do I have to joke, "Pull the plug if

I can’t do ballet," laugh when a

friend says, "I didn’t sleep with him

because I'd have to get undressed''?
Do I have to remember my mother

saying she'd rather be dead

than lose her teeth?

I think of the friend who

says she doesn't worry about what

poem she'll read but about what she

will wear. Another says she wants

plastic surgery but doesn't think

it’s right for someone in the arts:

shouldn't she care about loftier things?

I think of another woman who will

be photographed only in certain

positions. Do I have to tell you what

I'm thinking about isn't death