[Were it but Me that gained the Height—]
World like a coat, silver clasps,
ermine lined, warm with the dead inside,
rolling around in the red center—I thought
everything had a purpose—this was back when
I still drank—and wasn’t I a special
traveler, nestled in that pocket amongst the
butterscotch candies, the matchbooks?
Unessential but accounted for, a steady
thing to touch. World like a
morning glory, withered every
evening, world like a bristling dog,
terrified of thunder—I can’t believe
how I believed, or how that belief
assumed a shape around my body,
taking on the imprint of my heat,
gaining solidity. When
anyone questioned me, I held
it forth, let them touch the sleeve—I
needed nothing. World like an
egret, still and white on the highway
divider, world like a regret
typed out and then erased—I cannot
hold you any closer without
everyone seeing, I cannot
hold you at all, it seems, your
evergreens, your curling potato vine;
it’s all too much much, and I a bit of
goosedown, a thistle fluff, naked and
hatless, unaccounted for and extra,
the world like a world like a world.
Copyright Credit: Rebecca Hazelton, “[Were it but Me that gained the Height—]” from Fair Copy. Copyright © 2012 by Rebecca Hazelton. Reprinted by permission of The Ohio State University Press.
Source: Fair Copy (The Ohio State University Press, 2012)