I’m afraid—
I have blisters
on the inside
of my breast
and crow’s feet
and I am wet
like a baby
or a woman
who never found
what she was looking for
I’m afraid I’ve gone
white
at the roots
and yellow at the tips
I’m afraid:
my body sets up
in sections,
cloisters
and it’s
some rude journey
from scalp to sole
I’m afraid my pores
have turned to liver spots—
nothing comes in
nothing goes out
but a soft warning
from my organs
I’m afraid, I’m afraid
I have small girls inside
pressing my bones
and veins
toward my skin
I’m afraid
in a city of
sour eyes
I am a quiet man’s
sweet wife
This article appears in December 2011.
