Sensing and Perceiving

At the wedding I wore a green dress and felt pretty,
and it was disorienting because half the time
you watched it, flickered, but then you stopped watching,
and then I became ugly.
I still chase dad sometimes, don’t I – so charming and absent,
who blinks my foundation to dust and rubble as if through magic.
And watches, says, what did you want.
It’s when I want to be stooped and tied and bent and tied
and on all fours, tied,
so you can remind me of what I used to think I was
what I sometimes think I am
(in a photograph
a bad night’s sleep)
that I remember on my hands and knees that I am everything.
And that I read once that to smoke through an entire wedding party
is a means of isolation. Is mean.
I remember how we met, the second
thing you said, the last, and the way you seemed to speak
as if we were sitting and watching, as if I followed your words
like a collared dog – as if I were grateful and reverent,
and I remember – I want to be stopped so I can keep walking
and not care that you’re not watching.

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