What They Tell You

You will never excise want. All evening stock simmers in the dutch oven and ants

convene around the cat’s dish. What students I have distrust me and

call me ma’am, and the chalkboard is a ledger of fruitless exchange. Through the window

beyond the desk, the finch sock hangs

portentous but no birds come. I go to bed each night. Insomnia will not save you from

anyone’s misgivings.

No one will fuck the shy girl’s casing. Look again, and off I go with the Times, newsprint

heady with desire to mark me, my sheets, my face.