What do you write
about when you’re
doing fine? I cut
celery with my best
knife and laugh
at other people’s 
jokes. My cactus
dies. I bury it. How
do you forget that

night? I tripped
desperate into
longing. I was
a writer then,
too, when I wore the air 
too loose. The grass 
too long and lusting
(lusting!) after 
hunger. What
morning does my 
skin begin to sag
glad into waiting
cheekbones? My
god, my breath
tented on my 
skeleton. I 
make myself so
pretty. God I
was so hungry
then. Now. I am 
never ashamed
now. I have 
finally fallen
in love with being.

Outside, we burn up 
and down. The world
curls an ache into
its scaffold. Inside, 
my persistent body
is water carving
out a canyon.  
Always something
is eroding.