What I Remember, Unholy, is This:

                                                 Dead horseflies’ gliders, triangular

                                                           and translucent, torn −

The mid-day sun tanned me so bronze through

the unprotected window, I abandoned

my tame remains. Even your

whispering was in love

with your momentary love.

And the record player played Laura Nyro last

sex, high-heeled, and awkward.

                                                 torn from their shunned bodies −

Dead horseflies’ gliders, triangular

and translucent, torn from their shunned bodies −

Glukupikron: 13 Impressions
 

1. See how I hide my emotions from even my own wisdom.
    
2. The breast no longer my breast when bandaged in fear. A songbird, flutters alongside
   my sped-up heartbeat. I smell nothing, then the breast is not
   breast of my ego rather breast of
   a body. 
    
3. Two gold rings. I wear one Byzantine style on my right ring finger bought in the heat
   of July in Thessaloniki. The other, square with holes with two small blue topaz worn
   on the middle finger of my left hand. Heraklion some heartache ago.
    
4. Vasovagal. Then the heartbeat and blood pressure slow down. 
    
5. What were any of you doing while I was doing what I was doing?
    
6. When I open my eyes that I’ve successfully hidden in tears I find the clarity 
   of the metal tube that performs miraculous science. I hear the needlework of my soul unravel. 
    
7. The sound:  click click click pop click click pop  pumping out suspicious granular tissue. 
    
8. A cold wet cloth placed on my brow. Breathe in through your mouth. Again Again
   Again. I’m in prayer rearranging the wingspan of last winter’s Blue Heron
   so that I might next time lift off with him. 
    
9. There’s clarity I whisper, my eyes meandering across the stuffy-circulating
   airless biopsy room. Approaching consciousness my mind
   dips in and out of the chasm of coastal paths along the Annisquam before there was 
   indication of salt-like granules, suspicious. 
    
10. Could it be that I inhaled during a migration north, too much salt air, 
    while Northern Cardinals perched? Could it be the infection of milk
    duct 28 years ago, or that truly my own brine held too close to the heart, felt
    closed to the heart?
     
11. Take me with you, holy drift of a mind.
     
12. A breast is just a breast is not just a breast is not just a breast the way I held 
    just yesterday,
    myself, Eros.
     
13. Here, with the softest pillows, lie down with me.