After the first astounding rush,
after the weeks at the lake,
the crystal, the clouds, the water lapping the rocks,
the snow breaking under our boots like skin,
I was sick of being a woman,
sick of the pain,
the irrelevant detail of sex,
my own concavity
I want to understand the steep thing
that climbs ladders in your throat.
I can't make sense of you.
Everywhere I look you're there--
You gave me the child
that seamed my belly
& stitched up my life.
I want to write to you
about being a woman
for that is what you write to me.
For Naomi Lazard
Sometimes I can't wait until I look like Nadezhda Mandelstam.
-- Naomi Lazard
On the first night
of the full moon,
the primeval sack of ocean
Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,
the radio playing to bare walls,
picture hooks left stranded
in the unsoiled squares where paintings were,
I sit at home
at my desk alone
as I used to do
on many sunday afternoons