Poem 9

I thought I invented you.

Dredged the lake of my mind and found

a mound of cold clay with which to construct

a mind and a face and a pair of hands.

I’m a clumsy sculptor and a fool

to imagine that I could build

such brilliant, bright, and clean joy from scratch.

Disparate parts indeed to make a gem.

I know that I didn’t invent you.

Swam out and dove down to collect

a fleck of red fabric, threadbare with age,

an old pair of spectacles rusted through.

I’m a drunken author and a fool

To imagine that I could write

A lithe and willowy but vital frame,

Arms locked over chest, keeping all secrets.

I would not have invented you.

Waded in with a sieve and found

a pile of silt disguised as an affair

a sharp piece of glass instead of romance.

I’m a sloppy artist and a fool

to imagine that I could paint

an arrow through my chest, bile in my throat.

Disparate parts indeed to sketch a love.

I wish I could invent you.

Pile up for myself the soft treasures of

a sharp look in your eyes when you’re thinking,

a smile on your lips just to comfort me.

I’m a dizzy dancer and a fool

To imagine that I could choreograph

dragging myself from this underwater pit,

you decimating me as I crawl onto the shore.