Apparition Poems 12.28.13


To pound out words about what
happened twenty years ago— a
little blonde with bug-out eyes
sits, disavowing knowledge of
my existence, pregnant as she is
with my child— I talk to myself

as I was then, comfort myself, so
that I know I was right to feel
drastic about this Sade-consonant
Justine— “it sucks in a nasty sty,”
my favorite anagram of her name.


Why it means what it means
to be “lyrical,” to write from
the perspective of an “I,” &
how this changes in a recession—
I don’t pretend to understand,
I just sit around doing the work,
hunkered down in my mind’s
bunker, where there’s enough
sand to fill precisely one hour-
glass, & I have two eyes to watch—