There are mornings I sit in my bra
in the kitchen and marvel at the cake
I have eaten. Once the cake is gone
(it’s not) but once it is (it will be)
I will be free to think of other things
(fire, politics) but while it remains
in its long rectangular glass,
it occupies my mind. As for the mind,
once it is gone (it’s not) but once it is
(it will be) then I can let my body go.
I think that my body will probably go upstairs,
out onto the balcony, into the hammock.
It will be moved back and forth by wind.
I hope it will not clean out the dishwasher.
I hope it will not rinse the cake plate
so completely clean before wedging
it into the newly emptied dishwasher.
Surely it will want other things–
to have poems tapped out onto the skin,
to re-learn desire, to un-learn sin.