That is not a window
but a circle cut in concrete the desire to consume
smoldering like an expensive holiday
what I have been for a long time becomes real
as I walk through glass and metal landscapes
the taste of badness in my throat several bags filled with receipts
to avoid the building’s shadows which are so like faces
that is not a spell but some money
stuffed inside a sad mouth and that is not rest
but a white noise machine muscling us
into sleep in the cradle of almost middle-class
and these clothes I bought are not new costumes
but very old longings not wildness
but a dark hole in the city filled with neon lights
when suddenly a plateau of fire sharpens the darkness
burns through the fabric like
what I knew would come back and come back
shapeless animal of collective grief to which I was so cruel
Ansley Clark is a writer and teacher based in Washington State. Her poems have appeared in Poetry Northwest, Prelude, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. She directs the writing center at Evergreen State College and teaches poetry and arts-based antiracism workshops at various organizations around the country, including Hugo House in Seattle. You can find her at ansleyclark.com.
Image: Round Hole Round Peg by Tom Nix, finartamerica.com
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