She must try to simplify you
because there is a need to,
because she needs to fit you
into a form, like this poem for instance:
of folded images reduced into inch-thick
verses of hand-me-down cloth diapers
yellowed either by dust or debris
unwashed from her sister’s
three-year-old; of mango slices
dipped in salt every afternoon at four,
while the ice cream man goes by
and her tongue moistens for sweets
and more; of the hazy, sudden
spinning of the world when the sun
rises and she finds herself face-flat
and trying to empty life—quick,
into a washbowl! Because she needs
to simplify you when the cobwebs
of questions from the open windows
come spattering her way at sound-speed.
What if the old widow next door, for instance,
asks, when is your wedding again?
while these verses only look away, stare
blankly instead at the yellowed clothing
folded atop her bed; because these verses
only know how she could merely simplify you
by retracing maps that someone else drew
across her taut and yawning flesh.
