Schrodinger’s Lavender

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?

What about?

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

of noise.

Where do we go from here?

Dead fruit flies and lavender.

Maybe that is what the Buddhists mean by “emptiness”.




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