26.V.2003 :::: 1.00

[only now, two years later, am i able to tell you this.]

As if I am a danger to you, I
have boxed away the hazards of my things:
the swollen stacks of books, the kitchen knives,
the pictures ashing under glass, the inks
in bottles rattling as I lift the crate
and cross your threshold out. Back in. Repeat.
Hands cracking, thinning, taping up the cartons:
The muscles bruise. The nails disintegrate.
I shoulder out the quilts, the tea, the teaspoons:
I liberate your house by leaving it.

Stretch out, reach out: I break my quarantine
each heavy night, the streets still darkening,
and trace a line along the unlit alleys
to look into the space that I have healed
and torn apart: through one unblinded slit
of window I can see, shining and lit,
your familiar back and your outreaching arm.

erickay.june2001