Following Mrs. Parker
Around a vicious circle,
Crying as Mr. Benchley's liver
Betrays him and I shed skin
From the inside out.
Alone on my love seat,
Shorter afternoons seem sad
As they slip by. There is no Indian summer,
So I build a fortress with books,
Fortified by clutter:
A fertility goddess guards
The sacred texts beside
Coatlicue on the desk.
Dream catchers lurk in the orifices
Of my room, where Buddha soothes
The Blasphemers; bottles distract
Sunlight, reflecting little bits
Of broken things.
There is a wet, red stain
Spilling across my sleeve,
But still no purple heart there.
My eyes know too much,
Like Jeanne Moreau's.
My body has ripened,
Ready to fall, already rotting,
forgotten fruit.
This is why I won't face the intrusion
Of dawn, much less the people
Who know me
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