What taught me worry? Who twirled
dark gauze over my eyes?
Who mapped my body, made
these aches a scrawled key?
On the drive home, I pass a forest
crisp & pale & leafless from flame.
My task is to loose myself
from this image, to feel empty distinctly
for the trees. What mantra will leave me,
clean me—what sunset, what water,
what ode? Who taught me worry?
What pattern stitched so sturdy
I can’t unravel? Who will clasp me,
coat me, care me—who will fuck me
threadless? What stick did I pick up
that won’t stuck down? What luck
latched that won’t clash out? Sometimes
I wake & the day is its own introduction:
the gold blades searing the floor are the sun;
if you feel dizzy, drink warm milk;
you’re in your bed, this blank-trauma
is in your head; if your head’s spinning,
here’s some honey; remember
your body weaves miracles,
you could have a baby. If you’re dizzy,
remember the world is spinning.
Who taught you worry? Lay down,
speak steady, start from the beginning.

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