Driftwood as Eros
after Allison Benis White

I am still waiting for the right words to explain myself to you.
Cornbroom sweeps the porchdust—              all this almost
                                                                                    in the air. Long 
I have believed that to carry is to keep.          Never leaving
            the driftwood to the sand,      
                                    each piece suspended on the mantel. 
I collect                       every loss                    I had  no choice 
             but to feel.                  
I found the backdoor unlocked & wept.
                                                           That which keeps coming in 
does not leave.            I carry
                                    lack like another body.           Imagine
the rabbit dead in the tophat—the hand lifts her body & it hangs
               loose like a housekey.                        
                                                  Every room with its own dead
                           Every room in me with its own dead 
Now when you look at me long,         I want
                                                                        you to stay— 
             precise & hungry.                  
                                                     Now when I look at you long,
I can see you in the dark making fire.
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