Human Factories
Days ... perhaps there are too many of them.
But what, Sister Tumult, can we do? Clearly,
you did not receive my letter, my handmade
rocking chair, nor my lute. I wanted to establish
residency in your aura. You say you don’t recognize
my spectral presence? Surely, there must be a mistake.
I saw you at the city recreation center wading in
the indoor pool with your small child. Once,
I said to myself, we wore the same swimsuit, but now
there’s an accumulation of ticking between dream visions
and the soil of the garden is as warm to the touch
as the fox’s tracks I’ve followed through our midsized
city and when the path bifurcated at a Walgreens,
I retraced my footsteps like a Victorian detective
with crinoline skirts and a nice, juicy oracle.
But lo, Sister Tumult, the shadows descend
on my puffy sleeves and now I remember the infants
who once tugged my breasts—our sweat and milk mixed.
