Wish, Coin, Word—for Girl as Old Echo

Ache, the ache of routine, took as torn,

and bristling to be observed: she salivates.

She whistles at her good good-fortune.

 

Below, beneath a moon’s swollen elbow,

canted just so, to frame the floor, a remedy

I air with song, from lips humid with poetry,

or trying hard to be.

 

A stone well as deep. She hyperventilates.

 

I toss it as far up as my words can carry, to

surface, but it rarely clears the hole. So, with dirty

finger, I repeat my echoes from long, long ago

from a well bare, save me and the froth

I collect for breath, and eyes that observe

such cave-ins in-progress.

 

The dirt of an afternoon. Much harder than you know.

Really. When stopped to ponder from the distance of

many, many years, it really forms a position. It really

gets sassy, literarily speaking: It bleeds. It, despite

the grime of old poems, the jaunty retrospect, still bleeds

fresh up to navels.

 

Below, beneath the bottomless well of my skin.

She remembers its echo.

 

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