In the 36th year


I've never been like this:
after 35 years as small as a seashell
and tired like an old house,
were ghosts roam freely, 

No shell, no house. But the fleeing cover
of a trembling animal, life sized, startled,
carrying my name. But the name love?
A name so frequent but a silence so rare.

I haven't had much rest over 35 years, the simple rest:
that of people watching, listening, not thinking,
sleeping like babies.

Darling don't say anything. I'm a finger, 
doing everything wrong so that I can write,
write and write again. I wanted to close 
my eyes and sleep like a ship against your skin.

My reasons I don't know. I chose me
when I was still merely a light, a forgetful 
kind of late angel? But words are false,
words are cats in heat with wisdom.

I wanted to sleep like a child on the beach,
like the child I never was, the woman that 
never got to grow out of that child, the person
that now and then runs through me, crazy jogger.

Darling, don't say, I lived so intense, 
and so full.  That's ridiculous.
But if you can make it that my eyes find rest
and that behind my eyes, in that screaming emptiness,
you'd find my God, that fool of love,
I'd be forever grateful.