Iím not the one you think,
the one who lisps th to his name,
who melodramatically draped in black
scythes each umbilical for the last time.
Iím with you yet
even as you are with each other,
the corpse you drag around
charred by an inner fire
silent because its mouth is glued,
someone you loved now an absence
a white hole perforated at the edges.
Electricity from some despicable source
(fossil fuels or nuclear voodoo)
travels down a wire in a way
youíll never understand, lighting up
each bulb lashed together
blinking on Americaís December lawn.
Around each of them the opposite of shadow
tries to create a sunny world
where youíre too cold to live.
I live too despite this moribund label.
Whatís your excuse for not being glad?
Let your mind be a star to follow.
Copyright © 2002 Joanne Lowery. All Rights Reserved.