Traction Conversion

Echoes from last week’s conversation,
a speech delivered
on a candy dish a week ago, a small stone dropping
into the river before
I was born. As my body becomes less

elastic, other tolerances may
snap to. I may not
be able to turn my head to the left so easily,
but I could trust
he’ll be there to catch me or be

my eyes. Only the stone
can say for sure.

Paul & Arthur

Their discussion continually boomeranged
back to the dialectic between body and soul—one can wait,
the other won’t last. And still as time passed,
it was that physical form he would choose. And still
I wonder about separation

anxiety, about the risk
in pulling things apart.

To Widow a Name

is no accident, is my passive
aggressive mapping of my own
heart. I know

it is not what you are
called (or those few choice
words we exchanged)

that made me sick. I know
my body’s internal mechanisms
are of no concern to you. Still,

I can swallow this dream—panacea
that floats to the top. To say it
aloud is too much.


I am that body. Sedated
to prevent convulsion
into permanent stillness. I am

all bodies in motion
and at unrest. I am
this living


where all fury and blame
are rubbed out. Fragile shell—
I am one too.