im sick of januaries filled with baby jesus.
in the stories, they dropped him in the manger,
his heft delicate with frankincense,
and no one ever fucking heard the end of it.
burden me with your terrors!
how many dreams went unfulfilled
how many nightmares learned to spell their own name
give me a candle to burn down,
a glass jar i can empty
in this closet are a crowd of printed dresses: leopard
pinstripe, paisley, polka dot, herringbone---not one of them
belong to me
who knows where or why we are summoned into history?
still, strung: my string of paper butterflies
still, the leaflets from a gathering
My friend just became head of ephemera at the Bodleian and would appreciate the final three lines. As do I.
ReplyDeletei wish to know exactly what this means!
Deletehead of ephemera?? how does one apply
Delete