As for living to the side of yourself like a pile of rice
in the vicinity of the fish (as for being an eye-self
hanging above a body-self
content with separating cowboy stuff
from G.I. Joe stuff from Batman boxer shorts):
yeah, I’ve been there, I know what you mean,
don’t get me started. There were, in fact,
ten rooms in one house.
And dust and a couch and dirt and lamps.
I was thus the body of the two hands
and the body of the feet
becoming somehow
the body primarily of the mouth
demanding bleach. It’s not that I was
pitiful. It was more like:
who else would eradicate
this rotten scattering of skin flakes
and hair and spiders
and such? Who else would swab the spit?
So sure it was wholesome at the river
when I was a new mom
but creepy is the point
to live for the wiping of boots
and the soaking of jackets
with my mouth open and my poor tongue sticking out
like I was hoping to comprehend
what was wrong
with being mostly as I say
just the eye part of something
soaking in the grimy particles
while all the other girls went on being actual girls
and I’m sorry to have to say this
since I know it’s upsetting
but that’s the way it was; I appreciate your asking
come again real soon
be careful watch your step.
From Live from the Homesick Jamboree (Wesleyan University Press, 2009). Copyright © 2009 by Adrian Blevins. Used with the permission of the author.