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psalm_onethirtyoneWhen I go fast along the stern black asphalt,
the wind kisses my ears, humming and whispering, sweet words,
my first advocate.
When I lie in bed,
the blanket nestles around my breasts, smooth and soft.
Sometimes
I feel beautiful and capable, with my own life
in my own nail-bitten hand,
a fine standard curve.
Sometimes
I hold my body in my own arms and try not to be afraid
of silence.
God knows
there is so much I could do that I never will, slip through
my hand, lost points of data
(scatterplotted in the thick earth).
God knows
the texture of my hair someday will make my lover ache for me.
When I die, it will be a straight line,
a sleep,
the end of all my hypotheticals and unsolved equations.
If I calculate my empirical formula, I hope
the raw numbers are fitting.
If I calculate my p-value, I hope it is within the realm
of plausibility.
When I die, mark down null
or alternate,
whichever you choose.
I think it will be right.
God knows, when I went fast,
skidding my bike down that long hill
the wind told me to let my lover cup my breasts
and kiss them.
And I thought--
sweet Christ. if I earn love,
I don’t mind being a statistic.
the wind kisses my ears, humming and whispering, sweet words,
my first advocate.
When I lie in bed,
the blanket nestles around my breasts, smooth and soft.
Sometimes
I feel beautiful and capable, with my own life
in my own nail-bitten hand,
a fine standard curve.
Sometimes
I hold my body in my own arms and try not to be afraid
of silence.
God knows
there is so much I could do that I never will, slip through
my hand, lost points of data
(scatterplotted in the thick earth).
God knows
the texture of my hair someday will make my lover ache for me.
When I die, it will be a straight line,
a sleep,
the end of all my hypotheticals and unsolved equations.
If I calculate my empirical formula, I hope
the raw numbers are fitting.
If I calculate my p-value, I hope it is within the realm
of plausibility.
When I die, mark down null
or alternate,
whichever you choose.
I think it will be right.
God knows, when I went fast,
skidding my bike down that long hill
the wind told me to let my lover cup my breasts
and kiss them.
And I thought--
sweet Christ. if I earn love,
I don’t mind being a statistic.
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(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-06 02:09 am (UTC)Why does the last line feel like it rhymes? There is no rhyme there. It's not that it feels like it should rhyme, it's that it feels like it does. Whatever you did there, never stop.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-07 07:40 pm (UTC)Here, I made you a rhyme:
You give me gifts that make me glad;
studies show I'm materialistic.
Sweet Christ. if I earn love,
I don't mind being a statistic.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-07 07:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-07 08:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-06 02:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2009-03-06 07:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-07 07:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-07 07:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-07 07:32 pm (UTC)