Second Bloom. Anya Krugovoy Silver

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СКАЧАТЬ agrees that Shakespeare is still relevant.

      The eyelet of a shoe imperceptibly loosens

      from its stitching, the unraveling begun in earnest.

      Even words seem to lose their stickiness and fall,

      sickly, from the ceiling tiles. Only I notice them.

      Very slowly, so as not to make anyone nervous,

      I shake my head and x’s drop from my hair.

      To a Healthy Friend

      What is suffering but tedium?

      Picking pebbles from lentils,

      numb feet stumbling to the bathroom,

      hoping to make it to the toilet on time.

      But off go the panties to be scrubbed.

      We’re gross and boring, and if no one wants to listen,

      I don’t blame them. I was that way, too.

      Do you think I want your dish-rag pity

      wrung all over my lap? Your cat eye comfort?

      Everyone dies. That’s supposed to lift me

      to my toes and spin my final pas de deux?

      Tell you what. Leave the suffering to us.

      You’re not invited. Eat pound cake

      till your buckle bursts. Lose everything.

      How to Talk to a Sick Woman

      Do not make me your nightmare.

      Refrain from invoking me among

      the A,B,C’s of your fear.

      (There’s no cure, it’s true. That’s why

      I’m so blue.)

      I’m not your it could be worse

      or proof of the smallness of your woes.

      My bad luck is not your good luck.

      (And by the way, fuck you.)

      Your pity, though meant to be kind,

      undoes me. I find it dreary.

      Nor am I the Madonna of cancer,

      your bow-arched Amazon. Make me your inspiration

      if you like, but I don’t deserve praise.

      My days are as ordinary as yours.

      And when I die, what will you do?

      You’ll have lost your light-strung Santos.

      Cede me back my story.

      My veins spout open, then close like magic.

      I don’t dread death more than you do.

      Only I get to say I’m tragic.

      Me, Us

      Today, I saw a hawk clutching

      a mourning dove in its talons.

      The ground was a white mess

      of clawed feathers—a struggle.

      And yesterday, Nathalie died.

      Every death, a slap that knocks

      me backwards. Me, us.

      I lose myself in the others.

      We hope, we trust; death’s

      barbed nail on our nape

      still surprises us.

      The Wild Swan Geese

      They descend suddenly, a great flock

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