Personality: A Perfect Disorder
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"Joi de Vivre," Picasso
what are you willing to wish for why don't we
play in the park push me on swings
this story takes 17 blocks off my life remember
the piazzas we ate pizza bianca let watermelone juice
drip from our hands to the cobblestone street
why do you dream just of rome why don't you talk of
the ten-year-old self the first day of school admit it
you in your slacks and hard-bottom shoes so lost at sea
among kids in their USA sailor jeans gathered in circles
away from you turning their necks every few minutes till
two girls walked over and asked you
you stayed for a while it wasn't so bad you could
run fast your timing was quick you used it to leave
and return when the wind changed directions.
You understood pain like sharing your candy
let's face it who came here wanting to spread
themselves publicly open it's easy to love these closed doors.
"You think you're so popular," says my six-year-old niece when
I stand with my hands on my hips. I don't ask I know
what she means I hold in my laugh when she asks for
the meaning of "fuck" and tells me that "sexing" means
cookies in bed. This girl she's attached to
the world like glue she's a fury her shrieks are
a fierce morning prayer, she pulls her own hair
she has muscley fists and thin pounding legs.
She hurts the ground you can feel it. We envy her
hate her we want what she has. Wouldn't you hope
to come into this world devoted to feeling the air so
singularly yours on your skin and getting exactly--
not one item less--what your asked for? Nothing to dream
just this life wouldn't you hope to be the person
God listened to the voice screaming the loudest until
you were seen for exactly the person you came here to be?