Lucia Ferguson


And we stood there underneath the ceiling, underneath the sweating sky
Fluorescent goes buzz
And I buzz. And I am dry.
This mouth gone slack. Eight million words gone and buried, gone to stretching yellow lines, and still
I am the exploiter, I am the conqueror, I turn this into a poem
If this had legs it would walk so quietly
But I canít make you see slack jaws, empty eyes, hot close smell
This smell. They would have smelled it too, antiseptic, piss, perfume, love.
They stomp and I stomp. I am the conquistador. I help myself.
I cannot help but take and take
I am all dry
I am all dry all over
Is this what it has come down to? They wrote elegies. I have no elegies.
The requiem that they all sang
(their voices were hoarse but they were sure)
Is this the wail?
I have not wailed. I have not rent my hair. I have not marked this day.
I am not sure.
I have only seen an old woman
suddenly gone
slack jawed


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