In the beginning I went to work like a fat calf.
In the beginning I had a mother. In the beginning
I could never have given you the definition of a widow —
the one who through the window spots a storm, sees
a tree bustling through the wind. Sees rot. There’s
history and then there’s history multiplied. Later
there would be a man. He read me stories like
a snake. He read me tales tall as the red
cloud that dangles above so many people’s lives. Red
not like icing, more like blood because
in the beginning I was coming from blood, made
of blood and more of it. This morning I ate
a single firefly. Much to my chagrin did not feel
even the slightest bit ill. I’ve been talking so much
surreal talk on a rooftop with friends. Friends who know
well my name. Life is like this! Hating real weather
and loving — hello! My family, my friends, I really ought
to think more about you. The thing is in the beginning
I was obsessed with men and couldn’t speak with anybody.
My parents sent me to a doctor whose job was to teach
me how to talk. People come to visit, perch at the foot
of my bed, marvel at my loneliness — it really is an exhibit
like my narcissism, the jokes I make about my narcissism.
And yours. I mean you were the man, you came from your
boyhood, you walked a dog through a park, tried to control him,
made me feel crazed as a birthday cake. They say my lonely
shit is a crime! Hint: it is. Joke: knock, knock! Who’s there?
Dog! Dog who? Dog like throw this dog a bone. I’m having fun,
I’m playing pretend. I’m playing playful and may get
in trouble. It’s no joke that I hated the men who touched
me and didn’t realize the dead friends had died until
it was too late. Did you ever really enjoy my body
when it was curled up by yours like a river? I hate that I snore!
I’ve always hated it. I hate the way my stomach hangs down
like a third breast. But I love my family, my friends. I’m doing
what I can to swim through this lake, this history jumping.
