There’s an ink spot on the French tablecloth
An ink spot on the white Duvet cover
An ink spot on the ecru pillow case.
All my pens. My spots. My marks.
Squeak goes the fingernail.
There was blood on the slip
worn as a nightgown. A little cold
water and no harm, no foul. It
dried so fast hanging on the
Press skin to skin
Tom punted the football
He was in the middle of the gutter,
But good at punting. My Aunt died
In a crosswalk by a wolf whistle.
Today I’m weary. Weary like a
Puddle must be of its view.
I wish some playful child would
Stomp a saber tooth rubber shoe
Cross my thin mirror of a skin
So that I’m splattered about, collecting
Sand, petal, insect with the pull
Of gravity back to a whole, minus
A splash here or there. I’ll just
Lie here and evaporate ‘til there’s
Margie Louise Goodspeed
Los Angeles, 19 October
All Rights Reserved