a vertical death
stacked between maudlin
poets and copies of
Leaves of Grass.
we have contests
to see who can paint
the most impatient pool hall.
maybe someone
will tell us, "this
is where you belong."

there are wet spots
in all the places
we sleep or stand.
consciously thinking
that we are sure,
and we are sure
of nothing. (accept)
that i have no strength
to be so existential,
you can't help existing.

to be split into chapters
with birth and death,
one after the other,
before the rest of ourselves;
we can sell the expectations.
hoard profits between
sex and vomit and drowning
in voices on discs.
pay our attention and
stash the rest in cookie jars.

and when the reds become
stains, when our bodies
turn soft and sink
into the mattress,
our windowed poet eyes
will bestow us
with an account
of just how organic
our hearth has become --
an aging compost of empty spaces.

06/29/2005

Author's Note: (slightly) revised 7/14/08

Posted on 03/28/2006
Copyright © 2024 Meghan Helmich