S. Brook Corfman

When I wake
I spill the cup, it spills
each cup

placed lip to lip. I didn’t
use to deal with stress
by sleeping through it but now

I think I’m sick;
now, I trouble the sky, close and open
my eyes to idolize

the pink animal
at the bedside
or the flat world.

Wading, C tells me
of her superstitions, their blessings those
I gave up when young

but here in the river am trying
to get back. The rock leaves
the water smoother

than it entered
but smoothness too is a kind of
texture. I invent

rituals out of gut
feelings, let the shape
of the room shape

a fate. I photocopy a poem
about dandelions and my wrist
also appears. Inexplicably

I cry, this hand that lights the candle,
that rights the cup.
I wish for a curse,

for the specificity
of a single desire 
but it does not arrive.

I am ashamed.
I did die, I remember,
I did wear lace

collars in another life,
or silk, rose
from my feet as a conduit,

spoke aloud. What I find
beautiful is not
beautiful to everyone.

Visual Art: Troy Michie, Distorted In the Interest of Design (2019).