My only glory was in beauty,
how I reached from her slender neck
toward the sky, ravaged by wind
the way a rough lover handles
you: dizzying, powerful,
unpredictable, but with joy,
joy in touching you,
joy in seeing you disheveled. The cool
night air ran its lips on my silk skin
to make me dance. I danced,
long and lean, with perfect
extension and seamless flow.
I had no bones. Not one bit of me
was firm or harsh. I was air
itself. I was becoming
pure performance. I could
see the tire's eye watching me.
The car at the sidewalk with its
inflexible frame—it hated
my freedom, my lift, my flight.
The car, gravity's great love,
envied me. The wind, for a moment,
set me down with ballet grace.
I lit upon the cold steel spokes
striking out from the wheel
like the arms of great Kali. She
tangled me, and when the car
drove off the wheel pulled me
tighter. I wound around its neck
the only way a scarf knows how,
pulling my whole silk body
and everything that anchored me
into the mouth of never.
Poem In Which Words Have Been Left Out
—The "Miranda Rights," established 1966 You have the right to remain anything you can and will be. An attorney you cannot afford will be provided to you. You have silent will. You can be against law. You cannot afford one. You remain silent. Anything you say will be provided to you. The right can and will be against you. The right provided you. Have anything you say be right. Anything you say can be right. Say you have the right attorney. The right remain silent. Be held. Court the one. Be provided. You cannot be you.