Of the Dead White Men
Because some of them crawled on broken
hands and knees to save me
with their poems.
Because I was only
wretchedness at the edge of an abyss
of fashion magazines, and that
trickle of water down the side of their mountain
into my empty cup, which I refused to drink, they
were offering that to me. Because
I washed my face in their blood. Because
I tossed my hours in their coffins.
Because I was otherwise just dust rising off
a lampshade. My
tatters in rags without them:
A girl blinded by her own hair
riding her bike somewhere—
for want of what
was written there.
A glittering starvation, forgiven. Willing
to burn their hands for me
to deliver it, burning
while I denied that it was burning.
I was like a child outside a cave of snow
that had collapsed on her fathers.
I laughed, wildly, for a little while.
And then I screamed.
And then I pouted.
Then I grew older, and had to begin
to dig my own pitiful little
hole with a teaspoon to get to them.