This Loneliness—: A Pornography of Riches
Before I gave the red sofa away,
I lay back in its velvet plush, devouring
Vosges, square after square—:
before, before and then no more. Pandemic
time—: house sold, I spent
two months in the empty
living room, afloat on an air mattress
surrounded by plants. Closing time—:
robins built a nest above the kitchen light—:
an opening to move into
alone. Almost solace, alone hurt
less than shifting threats my body insisted
on posing—: dam break, stroke.
Ophthalmic, carotid—: aneurysm gapes,
drifts, disappears from my chart. Throws me
adrift. Out of the ICU, now, ritual keeps
time—: each day, a floral China pattern
breakfast. I don’t believe in deprivation.
(I think, perhaps I am food-sexual.) Remember
how I kissed the soil like cake? (Would you have
kissed me if I’d asked?) How rich—:
a picture. Worth the same
uncountable ] # [ Luther sang runs
about—: oh, my love—: I’m starving, fevered,
through—: Where can I go
without a mask? What can I hope
(if
I don’t want to ask—: is everything—:
too much—: to take?) of you?
