My friend told me
in the mirror
her face reflected
was like an open wound
and I saw the bluish red
of scarred flesh
I thought was healing
now fluid and flaming cranberry.
And I wanted to stop the bleeding.

I brought ice cubes
tore up the bed sheets
made tourniquets
from my petticoats
and she said, “Oh, your clothes
are soiled,”
but I wanted to stop the bleeding.

I ran for hours
soaking, mopping, wiping, pressing
until my back hurt and
my fingers stiffened
and she said, “You never really
seem happy,”
but I wanted to stop the bleeding
and the curtains, the couch covers,
and the clothes I wore
couldn’t absorb any more
and she said, “Did you write a
poem today?”
Nothing I did,
nothing I did
could stop the bleeding.

1/3/76

 for Jana

You are the strongest
person I know. My most
devoted friend. I respect
your opinions. I like your
mind. Your grace and movement
an aesthetic high. Your
yet unseen vision my deepest
inspiration for man. And that
day when I cried in front of
the 7-11 you took my hand,
I said I was glad to have
a friend. You said I always
did and always would. For
the first time I understood
the photo caption, “We two
form a multitude.”

6/26/76

Four thousand miles a year
around the block. At three
eighteen we roast marshmallows.
pick up friends who need rides.
Holding together in sand piles
of children and dull friends,
suburban mother strangled to death
by broken shoestrings and smothered
under mounds of holy tennis shoes.
Buy everything.
Nothing comes without its price
and inflation drives up
the cost of even shoestrings.
That sphere where you tighten
eyelets is my head, pared
like an orange, peeled and
sectioned.
Pared, peeled and sectioned,
fallen through stacks of dirty
laundry, picking up pieces,
always missing some part,
the sky fallen down to
the dirt and grass growing
out of the buildings.

6/5/76

Two artists in love
fight for the air they breathe,
claw words from each other’s throat
to wring and squeeze dry in metaphor,
the fiercest competition.
I hold my breath,
give you permission to quote
me. Feel robbed when you do.
Word joggers, we compare laps
at dinner. Sneak out notepads
before dessert.
My nightmare memory of Ariel’s
copyright. I wake up kicking.
An old Leonard Cohen line
our contract signed in blood.

Sometimes when we make love
I hear the crushing of bird wings.

8/16/76

Staring into the nostrils
of humanity
you sleep together
sharing smelly feet
and house slippers
snores and indigestion,
no doors to close
no shades to pull
the rattle of paper pillows
the clanking of doors
the all-night glare
of station lights
and nameless destinations,
days of rotten coffee
old people and
tuberculin air.

Too long the victim
of public toilets
and filthy linoleum
home becomes important,
with cobwebs in every corner
laundry to wash
and bills to pay
it gives some substance
to this life
tenuous as the trains,
home where it’s
quiet and private
and you hold me
when I’m sleeping.

9/9/77