hairline fracture. (over breakfast)
february 27, 2001 (022701)


the things we take for the inking--
mother
i will carry your hatbox
to a faultline:
the change in the earth. a
cracked spine divides
we the meek: feels little time
in our harried circumference,
few and slender moments in time not enough to
clear the throat bleat and speak
saying structural coupling
and other things which he mentions

no, at the table

you there, all-dressed in
white, with copper-toned
seams, star-worn freckles
lifting from a surface.

you, all:

hairline fracture,
buttered biscuits
and tea. the injury marks left
on his tuesday morning paper.
he claims women are archival.

you are, and all, and heavy
resplendent
(aswellas awoman)
but

you are all,
without a single opening
of your great wide,
of your great wide--

you said so
without
taking. (in your
printed linens
i heard it
red blue and pink
with your melon yellow
stains
and laundry detergent
disdain. your worn, born-in
hands. you speak
everything,
and to think you are
to think you do
without ever
LEAVING.)