Solitude

Tien Hau is Busy Goddess

nestle. bustle.

ache rising from my belly to my throat and am devoid,
like some foolish teenage girl, touch my lips,
long for kiss, and oh am tired of chewing for carrots
that don't feed my too large belly, and my pants too
tight, tired of here, tired, tired, tired, and the
plans I need to be making; why I had to try and look
him up I don't know, but if he's not in the phone book
....maybe he's gone and I can be there without worrying
later this week....just want to be at home today, getting
things done, doing what I want--smile if it sounds dope...
crunch, crunch, crunch, changed my password to poesia today,
and itmkaes me think of poetry and what I should be doing,
and what I am not doing, and what I want Oh what I want
so big and loud--I want to be out loud again, and wild,
and laugh, and feel my limbs falling around me. It would be
nice to go to the lake this weekend, but I don't want
to do it with anyone really, I would like to go and do
it on my own, be alone, be thoughtful, HA!

A Favorite Poem

From An Atlas of the Difficult World

--Adrienne Rich, 1990-1991

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.