Men stand in line to look at me.
I tell them to look inside
themselves.
When you’ve been weeping
as long as I have, your voice
becomes cavernous
like a well, distracting
like the pulled thread
of a beautiful garment.
The landscape of my body
cannot be bought.
Anyway, things change.
One day I am a snake, another,
a bird in flight
or a golden stone.
Today I am a pool of tears.
A man could drown in me
or be baptized, hit his head
against the rough sides
and sink into perpetual loss
of consciousness.
Amnesia is the disease
of the exiled.
Personally, I never forget
a face, that’s why
my voice wanders
in search of hobo souls.
Some things even death
cannot heal, like
insomnia, or never knowing
where your next
proper grief may come from.
-Susan Litwack
