July 9, 1962
The phone swings on its cord like a ticking clock,
the voice on the other end deepening--she knows it’s me.
Ted’s in the living room. The faulty piano dings
like the oven timer, going off.
August 15, 1962
What is this, my love?
You used to hold me like it was always winter,
greedy arms wrapped around this small body.
Trying to keep the poems in me.
October 20, 1962
I haven’t brought oven mitts for the new flat.
Towels work well enough. The slight burn
is a nice pain.
January 10, 1963
New year and the new words come out of me
like love on a summer day. The cold is historic.
I haven’t revised in weeks.
January 17, 1963
I am having
the most wonderful dream.
It’s like being seasick, but without the sick,
floating on water,
my body many pieces.
Writing, writing,
I cannot
stop.
January 18, 1963
The drugs have worn off, but the fever has not.
Anyone: kiss me. Listen:
don’t you see how important I am?
February 11, 1963. 2:00 AM
I have baked bread for the children
to eat before school tomorrow.
The oven timer ringing in my head
unpleasantly: I must end it,
hear clouds instead,
feel the heat and drown in it,
my own silence
in the space between poems.
The phone swings on its cord like a ticking clock,
the voice on the other end deepening--she knows it’s me.
Ted’s in the living room. The faulty piano dings
like the oven timer, going off.
August 15, 1962
What is this, my love?
You used to hold me like it was always winter,
greedy arms wrapped around this small body.
Trying to keep the poems in me.
October 20, 1962
I haven’t brought oven mitts for the new flat.
Towels work well enough. The slight burn
is a nice pain.
January 10, 1963
New year and the new words come out of me
like love on a summer day. The cold is historic.
I haven’t revised in weeks.
January 17, 1963
I am having
the most wonderful dream.
It’s like being seasick, but without the sick,
floating on water,
my body many pieces.
Writing, writing,
I cannot
stop.
January 18, 1963
The drugs have worn off, but the fever has not.
Anyone: kiss me. Listen:
don’t you see how important I am?
February 11, 1963. 2:00 AM
I have baked bread for the children
to eat before school tomorrow.
The oven timer ringing in my head
unpleasantly: I must end it,
hear clouds instead,
feel the heat and drown in it,
my own silence
in the space between poems.