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Poem
by Jane Rosenberg LaForge


Lye Drinkers and Lotus Eaters

I speak as though hanging
tree lights, rearranging groceries,
honing too much for small shelves.
I could be looking for the snakebite
kit, a tourniquet, the marriage license,
or birth certificate. It’s remarkable
I can say so much, so quickly;
that I can say anything at all.

In a railway station, under a scaffold
I can pass where thoughts
are overshadowed by big sounds.
There are no scars, no disfiguring
embarrassments. I could appear in films.
There might be subtitles, or more lines
for the actors. They would enunciate
my gestures, how I seem
to be sorting something, figures
on an imaginary abacus,
or arguing with the air.

Can you tell that I expected
to be beautiful, to wear castanets
and cymbals, manicure myself
in golds and reds? From my mouth
I anticipated mists and perfumes,
and my eyes the ether that supported
the match—the torch—the wand Picasso
held as the time-elapsed photography began.

I’ve been told to think in pictures
but the emulsion has been stripped
from my throat, and lungs.
Watch me: I refuse directions.
If lost, I am a foreigner
without language.
If I ask, I am a stranger feted
with a crying child.
I pluck as though harvesting fruit,
doing piecework, paid by the pound.
The foreman is looking.
If I lose this job, I’ll starve.