Patterns of Drops

My head has muddled itself
into six different
categories/ cities/ regional authorities.

I have a willy where a penis
used to be.

I wander through rooms
like a vague spectre
and wish I could become
a depraved addict
or alcoholic
but alcohol makes me sick and drugs
are so bad for you.

I'll drink too much coffee today
and eat chocolate, then complain
I can't sleep.

I have thought of suicide but then
who would comfort my baby
when he cries in the night,

and who would open my purse
when my son needs to borrow $20?

I am taking in air
like a lost and hungry child,
feeding it to myself
one inhalation at a time.

This has slowed me down
till I have only the present moment
in an oxygen bowl.

I breathe innnnn ... ouuuut ...
to relax/ clarify/ focus
till I am jelly/ a pinpoint/ a camera lens,
to still the cacophony/ my mother's voice/
prove that I am not afraid of silence.
Days pass like moving pictures.
of water
separated into single drops
flowing in patterns.

I am a test pattern/
constantly tested/ contested terrain.



My Body Politic

A political body
conservative and liberal
with marginal seating, I have to say
proportional representation
hasn't worked well for me.

I am a village on the margins
surfing the rim,
a musty head dictating on a whim,
course changes plotted
by majority vote.

I count my money,
re-working my finances,
and still I have more than I had
when I was married
and no one to tell me
my dress size is too big/ out of style/ the wrong colour
or shows off the chubby arms
I hadn't noticed.
But then -
no one to tell me.

Now I am an independent candidate
starring in my own cabaret.
I mix my metaphors with enviable ease,
dancing around the dinner tables
my tights twinkle,
feature dazzling footwork as I
twirl/ trip/ teeter/ pirouette.
My head, not keeping up,
trails behind my feet,
preoccupied with trails
of disconnected droplets
collected in a self-sufficient miasma.

My political body entertains a need for plasma
and reconstitution.
If only babies would stop crying in the night.