I can’t seem to collect
all that needs collecting: medical reports,
x-rays, the fill-in-the-blanks, bills,
pathology–in spiraling piles, the morning just begun.
In the garden–the hollyhocks
swoon–a red hibiscus
swells. I shut my eyes and write over
the page, on to the desk, floor, the white of the wall. I
understand how a woman
might not know
what feeling safe
feels like. Might yearn for arms
to enfold, someone to shut
up the beehive terror that always sounds
the same, is always just
behind her. Sometimes a woman’s perfume can knock you
off your feet, back you into a corner, make you
sweat.
Sometimes.