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Every day, whenever she
can’t make up her mind, she turns
into an open window, looks below
to where you can’t buy flowers for yourself, tries instead
to interrogate the walls, investigate
the angles at which they were constructed—
walls that look like walls: what refreshing lack
of pretense!
instead of walls that look like windows: look—
the world’s her oyster. Open up and
—oops! They tell her,—oops!
you were the pearl.
Never mind, then. Close your lips. Heal
the opening, the nothingness where Other people
find their Something. Someone’s
sleeping, someone’s
something’s still to come. Investigate
the wallpaper: peel and tickle it
back to the source. Hurry, now,
here come the cameras—
lens and lens, hand in hand, she felt as if the act
of intercourse was not dissimilar—
—and after tea, they’d take a stroll
hand in hand, along the garden walk:
and he’d point out the flowers, and she
would water them, hand in hand,
hedgerow of rage, with her small can.
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