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