(crouched)

There are those
who might wonder
why
I am crouched
on the bedroom
floor.
A last refuge,
On my knees
beside the bed
poised for prayer
but leaning
against my hands
instead,
listening
to a piece of music
I like.
Writing.
Praying,
writing.
It is all the same.

My nipples
are feeling demanding
My stomach hurts
from food it didn’t
want.
House guests deprive
me from circling
or pacing
or dancing,
the usual therapies.
Near as I can tell
I am about to explode.
I am expecting
quite a mess
the white duvet
I just ironed
a smear of blood
& gurts.
God knows about
the clean windows
which momentarily
resstored my optimism –
as a car wash
does.
That was until
I lost my mind altogether
& forgot to look
out the window
at all.
Ho, how I love to hold on to
the little things
that form
my life –
the silence
looking out the
window –
my round words
upon the page
the color
of the ink.

I’m sorry
really –
to feel so murderous
as I do,
when my few
essentials
beyond breath
are intruded upon.
The light and
racket during
my meditation,
just being able
to sit & think,
to lose myself
to looking,
as I do.
Sometimes
just looking,
at things already
well seen.
If seeing were
wearing,
they would be worn
out.
The pleasing pattern
of the lace,
are the lilies
holding up,
the sunflowers?
I take such
comfort just
in the wondering
which doesn’t
bother to call
itself that.
A kind of every
day awe,
that makes
life church.
It’s just
a thing I do,
my way of being,
so customary
I don’t even
think of it.
Until it’s lost
from me –
& then I find
myself –
huddled somewhere
acting as badly
as I have to
to survive.
Pen to page,
I let my rage
ponder the perimeters
of suicide
– or murder.
And when that
is done
neither
are necessary.

11/14/99