It must be a fruit fly,
dead on my thigh,
drifting over my birth mark
of Orion’s belt. I remember
this time last week,
he guessed what it would be
before he dipped his lips and
begged to kiss it, my soft and
milky relatively supple skin.
Just like now in reverse, he was
lavender when he breathed hot
air on me, and now he is dead.
I project myself to a time when
I am old enough to see not so
supple skin. Everything looks better
in a bathtub. When I was a girl,
I did not think about these things.
They always ask old people what
they would say to their younger selves,
what about writing to my future self?
It is romantic to think of a letter I would
write to myself and never read.
It is romantic to think
somebody might care about me
more than I care about myself one
day( which is not much, despite
the rudimentary evaluation of
an ex-lover). What is the legacy
of a Jewish-American woman?
The role models in entertainment,
in medical fields, in law offices,
we are everywhere, filled with the
guilt complex and instability of
being a Monsanto plant with
superficial-reaching roots. Nobody
cares about the Jew, unless they are
hermaphroditic, or transgender, or
black. Impress me, Jew, do your dance.
None of it is even that good. What
about the Jew with the long face?
What about the long face?
Those Hindu Hare Krishna tableaus
with the process from birth to death
piss me off. I only capture this moment
in poetry to prove that I once existed here,
in this moment, that there is something to
show from my time in the middle. The
fruit fly is lavender, though death
does not bother me anymore. I am
at once a brilliant, shining star
and a rotting corpse. I do not hide it
anymore in the American way. I want to
rub it in your face. Why does ancient
knowledge make no difference? “Women Who
Run With Wolves” was written in 1992. I was
two years old. It may be too late for me,
completely filled with apathy. Where do we go from here?
Preach to the choir. Make yourself happy.
Is art worth more than sharing?
We are on lifeboats. Where is life?
Happiness, meaning, dreams, reality.
This is my moment, my breath in a wasteland
Where do we go from here?
Dead fruit flies and lavender.
Maybe that is what the Buddhists mean by “emptiness”.