harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
i wonder what that little cloud might be doing in her lung.
might it be lily white as scar tissue or raspberry pink of the new wound; might it wait quiet as a mouse or sweep through the alveoli like a black death --
now a new face and i talked on the balcony with sad cigarettes over tears of dead mothers; "i still think she'll come back one day, she's not really dead."
and i couldn't believe it either: laid down in the backseat of the car wishing it were me instead.
-- and i try not to pick my wounds, try not to think of when i sat cross-legged, singing the body electric, to you, of your deafness, the armies of those i love dropping like flies, it was in the clicking of my joints, though you would not hear it, it was curiously in the disjoint of my ring finger each morning, though you could not see it, it was just me in the garden, poppy and i just poppets leaning on the sound of an engine in the driveway, it was seething in the white lines of my body's limbs, of lines of crystal snow and droplets on the end of a key, it was in the blood running from my knuckles in the art room, i tried to sing for you but you would not hear me --
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pierre auguste renoir's luncheon of the boating party (1880-81). referenced in jean-pierre jeunet's le fabuleux destin d'amelie poulain.
