After Elizabeth Bishop’s Visits to St. Elizabeths
She was the house of Bedlam.
She was the woman.
She was—past—She was
the moment you realize there may be no God.
Facial expressions are faulty.
Roots grow in the throat
of that damaged woman. Voices
are not modest in one’s head,
ears, rib cage
that stifle shifting shutter edges
of that wasted life woman.
Odors are content
on someone who doesn’t care.
Consciousness is tricky business—
loose chandeliers in unnamed churches.
Whips of whispers of that generous woman.
Fingernails are painted clear.
Stalk oneself in daytime.
Freight cars are missing
long before being noticed.
That neglected woman.
Clothes and pictures are thrown out
then forgotten;
upside down the trash
as proof as footpath.
Dead fathers live at the wrong minute.
Dead mothers are just dead.
Water is always doused with lemon or vinegar
for this woman.
