inside this body are seasons:
orange, brown, white, black, green, pink.
they oscillate in the wind; they keep
trying to tell me who i am.
i am a book of years wrapped in
ribbons of non-time; i am matter and
anti-matter dancing along a loop of infinity.
we still do not know what lies at the core.
each month i unwrap one year;
every few days is a new moon,
waxing and waning with terror and beauty,
hunger and spirit, numbness and nothing.
no one can tell me who i am.
i must move this spectrum through space,
cutting closer to the center:
galvanized by love, rage, curiosity, grace.
if you have ever sustained anyone of any age,
you know the cycles we take: trays, cups, utensils, bottles,
napkins, needles piled up all over the house—pills counted
and swallowed, like stuffing wishing coins into a cuckoo clock.
we perch and hang onto the edges until we can
no longer fight the urge to lie down, to face
our house divided, to be horizontal like the rolling hills,
waving and watching from a great depth-distance.