With nothing in my pockets
but empty hands,
I am hollow.
The backseat of a Chrysler,
the thick evergreen
airfreshener, the dark
stain on the fabric roof.
Empty American Spirits collapse
and crunch
beneath my weight.
A Lady Lazarus--
imagine it.
I broke apart
but they gathered the pieces and stitched
a rictus, an artificial heart-
beat, the indecency of my splayed
legs patched over.
Hung on the rack,used hand-
me-downs never go
for much.
I feel every head turn
and stare
only they don't.
As if a mask covers,
As if there are eyes
in these pits. As if
I really am the same
identical woman
who stood
in this body before.
Bleeding from the open throat of my conviction--
my contrition--I will
serve this life
sentence in the black-
winged shadow...
Fetter my ankles, I will stitch
the letter to the skin
of my scarred breast and give
in.
