y o u t o o k f r o m m e a l l m a n n e r o f t h i n g s
J O A N H O U L I H A N
In a room carved apart
pinching the end of a hair
from this world, I am not let in
to the next. My fingertips stick
as to volted wire, teeth and bones
banging, cells wracked. I am a wreckage
of light. Rid me. The pomp of Spring,
its flood and buzz all counterfeit. Sweat
bothers the back of my neck like a flea.
Will you rid me. Make the wolf mild,
the rabbit, in its panic, soothe.
Not intact, not me, not ever, exactly, again,
I will be rid of season and cycle, be various
and multiple as the grass, will go
where you would not have me, body left,
hard. Solitary as the mason bee
that builds its nest to crumble,
I am intent, intend to follow you
fast as you go, I will go too
cold, rabbit, and daft as moon.