MY BROKEN HEART

On the 85th night of 19 ? there were 280 days left in the year.
The cure began. Just as Pascal carried the date of his revelation in his breast pocket, I began to carry a dated hanky next to my heart. Healing is a job that requires a mop.  

This arm I am leaning on is perfectly suited to mine.
(I always wanted to say that.) Now cold winds have come and the doctor has determined that my hope was full of holes.
"But holes in the universe are made of matter."  

On the 305th night of 19 ? there were 60 days left in the year.
The cure began. Beauty of style depends on similarity.
Snow for instance is a perfect show, because the sky opens like a flower shaking out its secrets.  

This time of year reminds me of the dot that completes my name.
The dot over the letter that pertains to the first person singular is a symbol for me of my head. I always put on my dot when I'm already out of the word.

At last I only have hope for heaven.
Like a person who has "come to" after fainting,
I now know the meaning of the question:
"Where in the world?"  

Women should sit down like me ?
wherever they are standing now ?and refuse to move.
I always wanted to say that.
Whoa! Is someone here, or is this, like, a hat tossed in the air?  

Am I really better at being crushed than I was before?    

 

from ONE CROSSED OUT    

Nobody wants crossed-out girls around.
Any agreement with them is difficult to achieve.
Hanging in hammocks all day, they only know how to wisecrack.
And with whatever happens to be the meaning of their days ?
they will make a pact.
A sneaker hangs in their trees.
They say things like "I'm not who's who in America. Are you?"
No, I'm just here with my corpse.
Double overalls like fences endlessly trespassing and nobody
saying thanks for everything.
Were these the pants I kicked in the air? one of them might ask.
To the fish, a person is a fish. But a crossed-out girl is always just that.
One has a teddy bear that looks like Ireland on a map.
Others beg a way out of their jobs from the boss.
Then one of them suddenly gets up one day and acts.
She will work as a labor union organizer beginning with female laundry workers.
Another will make jam when the raspberries strike.
And with her bellows a third will make the flames rise to beat down the damp
and raise up the poor. A bunch will raise five children who aren't white.
I am wishing for this way to happen fast.
Dreams have orientation. Dreams like women who are bad.  

Copyright © 1997 by Fanny Howe. All rights reserved.