Blackbird Archive← v1n2, Fall 2002Poetry · Volume 1, Number 2
Pineal
Such a gland holds sadness,
manufactures it in, say, white gobs
that creeps from where
the third eye has sunk to,
on a plane to where I lived before
the diaspora of highway, ambition
gassing my escape, I sense
the gland is old-teenaged,
menopausal, sick with theatrical sob.
All these extra people
rowed beside me had parents and
forgot them, except for a few
portraits. How to worship
that state I am soaring toward,
the state of the body, its father,
mother unrequited in a sadness
that just stops at Off?
