I became part of the house, its heart
many-valved and attached. It’s true
I grew tired of beating. I wanted
to say more than I am. For example:
I was or I will be. We will not speak
about what happened at night, except
that there were hands,
that they were wood white and pale.
Silence taught me well,
but not to be good. I closed up
my pronouns, fashioned boxes
and buried them in red clay.
As if the color of the earth
mattered. My gods were stone, pocked
with rain, waiting for birds. I warned them
about biography, the horror and I
continue. There was a garden
with roses, where air was scarce. I liked it
even lightheaded, even aching
for the enemy. I hated the moon
for its plainness. There was beauty
and it was paid for. I stood
at the windows in late afternoon
and ripened. Wanting to be
inevitable. There were other roads to hell
but this was mine.