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Saturday, April 15, 2017


I dreamed last night that the first person
I loved removed the orgasm from my body
like a sea globe, cupped it for both of us
to watch. She left for another country again

and again, my pleasure round clay, never
present for me. I said (in the dream) this
is the way it ought to be, me apart from me.

I woke up laughing, having to pee. The essayist
at last night’s talk said a good essay ought

to braid together at least three things—
otherwise, it is only a take. What have I
thought to take. More than 400,000 Syrians
have been killed in the Syrian war and still,

I can enjoy wine. My body responds beautifully

to touch, and I would follow a good touch
until it dies in the back of my dream. I ask
a friend if I’m allowed to receive luxuries

and we both look down, as if to pour dead
light out our eyes. The contradiction one
faces to be solid and not ephemeral remains.

Light, when it crystallizes incivilities,
becomes a math that can burn. Touch, to perform

its language, can be the catastrophe of touch.

It can’t help gain proximity. A womanly
gesture I remember from girlhood, someone
moves her hand to her breast in answer

to a known question. Sunt lacrimae rerum,
a man says in my earbud. It can mean that
there are tears for things, as in pity in the

finite, as in a dress sticks on the caught thigh,
as in ears bleed 50 miles from a bomb blast.
It can mean there are tears in things, as in

what caught the thigh, as in the bomb
even before the blast. The hands that soldered
metal, a machine that finally worked.

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