in which my body is not disastrous

R.L. Wheeler

i like to believe people

              do what they think is right.

                            i do not always know

              what is right. it is spring,

and today i watched a figure throw

              a frisbee alone in an open field,

                            which is how it has been

              these months: my body, escaping me,

creating a game out of loss and longing

              for retrieval. by so many,

                            i have been told to be cautious

              with what could be kindness, warned

it could subsume me. i do not

              think that sounds so terrible

                            — and yes, i understand this

              proves their point. yet i wish

i could yield, too, to my fury.

              let it stretch and settle

                            within me without flinching

              at the strange shards in my mind,

the image into which they arrange themselves

              still indecipherable. this loving rage:

                            a room — vast and beautiful — i exit

              and return to, finding the door is locked.

i knock and knock. all I want: to be

              undone in a way that is not disastrous.

                            to surrender to that ruin,

              which is not really ruin, inside me. the sky

undoes me. the edge of that field —


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