[In this small tent men pound]
       

In this small tent men pound
on my portico, hold ground bees
to death in their fists. I hear their drills
slice walls, skin against nail against
pure bone frame of pointed organ and venom.
Against the soft holes of my body
organs press and rupture, press and rupture.
My little husk. Nothing holds upright.
I make mythical these small walls, hold a spoon
inside my mouth until the skin breaks,
here as in there. We disagree with ourselves
and choke on the institution. I run and am stunned
at how my body has created an emergency in me.
No choice now but to go on toughening
the memory, its piece of flesh.
Are we part of some heavier pattern yet?
When will men stop wasting all this energy
on transcendence? I want to write a poem where
the I is the one always rescuing the other I,
but am told over and over again that you can't just
unconsciously collaborate. That it's just not possible.
But I didn't write this poem for you.
I do not write this poem.

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Copyright © 2017 Gale Marie Thompson All rights reserved
from Bennington Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission