Everything I touched turned to cardboard
so I withdrew to my room and slept
among the apartment’s regular noises.
It wasn’t giving up so much
as trying another position.
But even my sleep crumpled around me,
childhood disappointments ran themselves over and over
inside me. Perhaps trying to find diamonds there, or anenomies,
or other natural beauties. I do house spectacular
Rolls Royces and spas where hundreds
can bathe their pretty eyes
and never thank me
and never hurt my feelings.
I am a tycoon of sorts,
I don’t care about health
or psychics,
don’t need farmers’ markets,
I smoke cigars and ride on a pontoon
carried by the men,
not women, who will be my pallbearers.
I never run to the gym
to work off stress. I don’t care
about the beginning or ending of anything.
I woke when the radiator’s heat came on.
Only yourself to blame, said the dream, you want to
be the high priestess, but you dress
in cardboard.
Oh, I said, but I love beauty,
and the dream laughed, hello Sailor!
and I shriveled at that and didn’t want to get up
even for a glass of water.
published in Grain, Winter 1998