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Who Does She Hope To Be?
She looks for a family in mirrors, haircuts,
in grains of salt; belly doubles as aesthetic
distance, marriage broker --
pregnancy can end smoking, drinking, giving
herself away to the night's prizefighter.
"Once ya hit bottom . . . there's only up," they say
but can't she see that once she pops up in China,
there's sky, then space?
It's a long way to the night's cratered pendulum,
whose gravity shall surely fling her careering
towards the edges, hope like quasars,
tremendously bright, plausible, true as myth:
out there must be a watchful eye, a dash
of nebulous reward for braving extremes,
second grace perhaps, interception of an answered prayer.
Each gasp held in passing ecstasy,
every painted shiver of the act,
libido graving placebo into the interstice;
these scenes give way to greater interregnums:
couriers mistaken for knights, love for a midwife,
all the mechanics of despair a calculus for conception.
In the tow of her best intentions,
her Grecian urn of a body, like plunder in hard times,
bears the burden of function, of underlying purpose,
intrinsic value realized in form if not in appearances;
takers come and go, the auction in her eyes
without reserve.
2 February MMIV
I sit at the counter