I Forget Your Name
My arms can fold in eight directions
(and that’s not counting leap years)
but I haven’t said a word to anyone;
you understand, don’t you?
They’d only beg favors
and I’m happier
as a mass among the masses
than all the heavenly bodies who never learned
the truth: the world is broken
in a manner of speaking
and I’m not sure I want that getting around,
though some things can’t be helped.
Take my sixteen elbows
or the dark side of the moon--
even the seven seas, for God’s sake,
have personal lives
and private dinners
which so few are invited to
and even less return from.
(Most come back in body bags
missing limbs and organs,
not unlike the pharaohs
who filled themselves with earthen nightmares
and sunk like stones.)
I hope that now you understand
why I cried that afternoon I kissed your cheek
and tore a hole in my yellow shirt.