766 Readings


Maybe she’s as lonely as the rest of us, not comfortable with failure. I step into your voice, its outfit. I watch you wear your voice as an outfit. You could say I cultivated a face. In your. Make-up. I’ve packed up all the weather. The men having babies in their paintings. Babies history arrests outside of my museum, which is her museum. I sing into its building, unharvested with echo. Tone on sleeve. She’s as lonely as the rest of us, she says. And wears it, disdainfully. I put my cheek on the frame to cool my eyes. You say you’re writing this one as a woman comfortable with failure. I am breathing this one as a failure comforting her. She writes this uncomfortable movement. This one has a body to zip up. This one is a reel around the baby. A bird’s wingspan in a museum, its echo on my tear.

Posted 01/07/11
previously appeared in RealPoetik http://www.realpoetik.org/2010/07/mumolo.html