[Look, I write about what I]
Look, I write about what I Do not
give myself. The ocean Is a world
in which you do not Need a job.
Money is a thing That eats and
eats. How long— The waiting—I
could taste the sea And say
something about
Suffering. Not you. You fled
Before the sky turned gray and
Now I stare, obtuse. I’ll go back
To work—I know— before I go
Somewhere else. Look: the
Water snaking.
******************************************************************
[The day opens like a wave.]
For Laia
The day opens like a wave. I
am not a victim. What is the
feeling of the sun. What, the
earth beneath my feet. I was
asked to imagine all the layers
below me: concrete, thatched
roof, terrace, air, concrete,
soil, shit, but what’s below
that. I was asked to do all
kinds of things and mostly felt
the air move through me. I
was told to write a mono-
syllabic fairytale about a
grandmother and her daughter.
I called them the old girl and
the girl-girl. Death is a
one-syllable word. Dirt. My
body is situated upon these
layers going down, latticed or
spiraling, and wouldn’t you
like to see ants on lace. I’m
trying to tell you: the sun
doesn’t hold me in place.
