My hands show up

before me,

tilt the pen,

let the ink flow,

sign me ten-part madrigals,

deal me full hands,

semaphore intuitive messages

at arm's length

The mirror watches me shower,

the water engulfing a male body,

old but well trained,

the origin of many poems

& many miles;

the totem of anger & love,

of fast decisions

& unabashed changes of mind

and cut-up phrases

Was I a nearby woman,

I'd try hard to make him enter me, daily,

eager blood straightening “things” out

I confront the day

swept in a heavy towel,

my feet leaving wet tracks

in the hall,

time remaining my grand exploration,

from Jalal al-din Rumi to Solvej Balle,

from Monteverdi to Hooja

The trees brush the sky;

the sky whines with pleasure;

the people are blinded,

steered by telephones,

hypnotized by latter-day scrolls

and the Spotify AI DJs

but folks like Dottie Andersson

ensure me there's a world

seeping through

as I turn my back

and dissolve