What am I going to do with you?
I have found no box to put you in.
No container that would house your unwieldiness.
What am I going to do with you? With the best parts of
me I’ve peeled off, like a hangnail, and wrapped you up in?
With the weight and the shame and the cross-referencing
of grief, ecstasy and abandon? I think it would be wrong
to bury you. Perhaps I’ll cover you in flowers, and fine lines,
aeroplanes, and other, ephemeral things.
What am I going to do with you? Weave you into
some great tapestry. Coax you into hiding with a stick, or out,
with some great, sugary reward. What is one to do with you, with all of you?
With the whole, almighty lot of you.
I am ill-equipped. I have no formal training.
My sails are depleted. The stars are all crouching behind the clouds.
What am I going to do with you?
A poem. A petticoat. Sticks. A hole in the ground.