Wednesday, September 09, 2009


I am raw.  Raw as the fields in which William Carlos Williams walked,
hands stuffed deep in his pockets.  I am raw.  Rawer than the fish I ate
for pot luck supper that one night in October when the leaves were
beginning to change and I had no one.  

I am raw.  My voice is a seal, and the door opens and you stand,
nodding your head, nodding, always nodding.  
I am raw.  I am pain, pain that is quicker than lightning,
that moves up out of the ground and onto still air,
I have won every award that does not bear my name.  I am childless.  I am homeless.
I have no bread, no way to eat.  I give my food to orphans.

I am not anyone's angel.  I am nothing.  The world is ever changing, ever dying.
You accuse me of nothing.  I speak nothing.  I speak.  

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