Song with Borrowed Shoes

Like any other woman,

I’m tricky—

a songless cricket.

I name my needle

Patience and wait

for the wet thistle

to turn into crowbar

penitence, into cellophane

or liquid glass, into

cracked ceramic dice,

a pair of muffled

cymbals, a knife.

Forgiveness

In every poem titled “Forgiveness,”

it is snowing. Even if the poem is set

in Florida, and the theorist on the beach

is brushing sand off of his sun-kissed Speedo.

Even if the poem is written

inside at a table lit by candlelight

with a feather pen dipped in red wine

fathoms beneath a smoldering volcano.

If the poem is called “Forgiveness”

snow must fall on the neck

of a porcelain figurine, must cover

the closed eyes of a woman silently

thinking of screaming and how

wonderful it would feel to stroke

each imaginary yell like fingering

a flute in a mothball-filled closet.

Roll it out. Become as elastic as

a dismembered paperclip,

I would tell her.

*

If this poem is not really

about forgiveness

the history of the word,

or its misuse,

then  I am sorry

for wasting your time.

I am sorry for dripping

wet mascara

all over the numbers

of the broken elevator

and for letting

the shine off

my long silver hair

burn your eyes

after your difficult

ocular surgery.

I am sorry

for the wet shoes

I made you wear

all winter and for

winter itself

with its brittle

hopefulness.

Most of all,

I am sorry

for the word

sorry,

how small

it sounds now

how fucking white.