Blame the starfish, its triangle losses
and gains. How fancy to lose an arm
these days. To let what’s unwhole become whole
and back again. This is called swinging.
Last night, I dreamt I was a lobster.
One-clawed and hardly. You, a four-sided
constellation of the sea. What choices we had:
to complete ourselves, ourself.
Imagining our broken off parts in some marriage
of their own. By morning, I know better.
We are not fancy. We must stick to the one wholeness
we know: to let what is missing, stay
missing. And Swing? No
POEM FOR MY RIBS
Un- sticky but grasped around me
Dear bone cage dear hard corset,
Dear birdcage dear dirty corset,
"Winnow" began as a fascination in regeneration: the ability of a living thing to re-grow lost or broken parts of itself, as well as a fascination with humans and their obsession with completeness.
"Poem for my Ribs" is a meditation on the physical structure of the ribcage. Beautiful or odd. You decide.