Poem 3
well she was all much more than she ever knew, wasn’t she she was made of rubber and violin strings, of satin and circus tents
she was made of the making and the molding of clay and cobwebs
and little attics she wanted to crawl through as a child
through a child’s body, but not quite yet a child again
she would have to wait three more silent infinities for that
for that jagged longing to replace itself with redemption
for release to reverberate
for radios to reel around the rhythm of remembering
well she was all the less and all the singing of the sea. she was the slamming of the car door in the mornings after the mornings after and she was the solid gold chest of loveless murmurs that were racing her down the hall, that were were chasing her up the tree, that were making her into a more than she would ever know how to be.
