Human Factories

Days ... perhaps there are too many of them.

But what, Sister Tumult, can we do? Clearly,

you did not receive my letter, my handmade

rocking chair, nor my lute. I wanted to establish

residency in your aura. You say you don’t recognize

my spectral presence? Surely, there must be a mistake.

I saw you at the city recreation center wading in

the indoor pool with your small child. Once,

I said to myself, we wore the same swimsuit, but now

there’s an accumulation of ticking between dream visions

and the soil of the garden is as warm to the touch

as the fox’s tracks I’ve followed through our midsized

city and when the path bifurcated at a Walgreens,

I retraced my footsteps like a Victorian detective

with crinoline skirts and a nice, juicy oracle.

But lo, Sister Tumult, the shadows descend

on my puffy sleeves and now I remember the infants

who once tugged my breasts—our sweat and milk mixed.