I remember leaving notes
around the house of her first wife.
These notes I made in breath, not writing.
I breathed onto her mirrors
and I breathed into her bread.
Her first wife is a vision. She doesn’t exist. Her house is down the road from ours, closer to the stream. They had a baby and nobody knew where it came from. This confused me for years.
I walked up to my first wife one day and down came an outpouring,
straight from the heavens back into my navel.
I zoomed in on her face. This wife was a quick one. She was stealthy.
So I took it upon myself to straighten her hair, lace her toes, administer poison and sit her out in the sun.
I sat that woman out.
Bread is in the oven. Her first wife sits beside me, counting peas.
And as I breathe onto her face, it’s only a breeze
on the tip of her nose.
[Performance]
