directly under the shower head,
water perfect temp. i imagine
dying is your brother in semi-dark
deer from the dining room.
imagine dying: a mountain range
of salt filling mouths all
wide & humble. if only
living things die then dying
is part of life; wisdom neglecting
a sense of home, historic lodes
returned to (for context). wisdom
is absent in a body neglected
but if survival is merely glimpsing
the summit then to say i am
not you, little thrush, is redundant.
what do you know yourself
by, during the secret hours?
what white sky, what stones
make love to your windows only
to be thrown right back. morning
is silence in the house of women
-no-longer-women & anger
perfected body realness
for a species so totally
busted no gallon of pathos nor
gorgeous quality accrued (with interest)
can save us.
J. Freeborn is a teacher and the anthology books managing editor at the Poetry Society of New York. They have recent work in Dream Pop, Tiger Moth Review, Impossible Task, and elsewhere.