a decomposed sonnet for V. W.
I’m not especially proud of the way the summer collected
Pooling about the fallen calendar leaflets like dirty pond water
I’m not especially proud of being proud to wear expensive jewelry
And party dresses whilst half asleep and drooling on the couch.
I’m not especially proud of pretending to do work with no deadline
And soaking up praises as sponges do the murky dish water
I’m not especially proud to find excuses to wonder of lifestyles
beyond my reach, a name for which I’m sure I won’t be proud to adorn
I’m finding excuses to fill vases with filtered-water, promising blooms from dead stalks
While living in the sunshine of possibilities, I am nearly a kin to the diagonally cut
Stems of the corpse flora, so beautiful; less beautiful by the day.
Holding my breath—in anti-anticipation—for some naïve suggestion
of failure, I’m still reading the work of a dear dreadful Virginia
Woolf. How fitting; it seems we are pulling each other under.