Annie Pittman


& the blue wire              threaded through me becomes visible

as I undress in the sun at the bus stop, peeling off my sweater
like the skin of peaches I blanched this morning, meat bruised
but glowing. Maybe that’s what I need sometimes: scalding
& an ice bath in a green bowl.              & the wire is blue like a vein now,
safe translucent hum, when all that should remain inside remains
inside. Some days, the thread              pulls me along in spite of circumstance
I move from dish to dish, window to window. I am too loud
for catatonia, but it’s a stillness inside of me that frightens me so.
Crying in a dream, I awoke last night to my lover’s voice
“you’re okay.” What they don’t tell you about love is that the wire
remains. What they don’t tell you about the wire         is that love
remains. White flowers in the courtyard this morning petaled like
confused stars. The small pine growing out of place—I hope they let it
stay. Maybe it’s the pills bringing promise back from the big water I swim
or try to, holding onto the wire,            my hands the sad feet of a submerged
tightrope walker, my open mouth just catching breath. Maybe it’s
because I usually sleep through the mornings that this one has done me in
for the better, its golden light on the boulevard & most of my sorrow walking
a mile behind, like a tiger on a leash,               slow until hungry again.

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