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.