Meg Yardley

CITÉ UNIVERSITAIRE, GENÉVE, 1999

My marionette arms, my marionette legs, all bone:
Terpsichore has gone home.

A flash: my doppelgänger’s gleaming arms
across the room. I wrestled her down

last night in my sleep, but forgot
to wring a blessing from her moon-white throat.

            These things only will be granted:
           Cards scattered on the floor, the blond King face up.
A listener. A blue sky in the afternoon
when I wake up wooden.

A man with drunk eyes seizes my arm:
“Give me one good reason why not.”

My deciduous body dies a new death each day,
how’s that?

Every night I sink,
every morning I’m still swimming.

 

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