Not the hand, but the face it touches
Not the mother shushing, but the child
crying because he doesn’t understand:
the subway, the man with acid scars
on his face, hunger
Don’t be the family,
be its benevolent spirit
Be dead, be full
Not the tree, but the termite that eats it
Not the wood, but the throat that swallows the wood
Not the body, but its revenge,
its end:
I walked out of my life
and walked back into it
My lover says Not yet
I wake and eat pink clouds
My lover says Too soon
So there is a road
streaked with light
There is New Jersey
My lover says I want a son
Not the body but the star
Not the child, but the hope
that comes with the child
Not song, but prayer