I often want to do things.
For example, it’s often that I want to crawl under a table.
I often like a corner, too.
And it’s often that I want to zip open someone else’s bear suit
and crawl inside with them.
A pair of mascots. Two super-safers.
Do you have a length of binding tape?
If so, you know a ghost.
If so, okay. Me, too.
Those of us who can imagine death at a distance
get some God and some magic.
Those of us who have no distance, more magic.
Not too sure about more God.
Is that something you’d want?
My jacket button is the faded face of a ghost
I know dearly. My husband is my cheery mascot.
I am secure because I hop up and down on that ravine
with my red and white measuring tape,
nimble and quick as if my feet were on fire.
September 11, 2008
Yes I am soaping the windows
this town is shut down
reminding me of another shut-down town
with soaped windows, cigar Indian
Yes I am scared of the wolf-hunting woman and her beauty jaw
Yes what am I doing here knuckled behind
these soaped windows when down goes another wolfanother town
the question who would want to declare war on America is asked
oh soap up those windows
pull the feathers on my head
shut it down between the ears
I will name all my family Wolf
and we’ll run from this country we wrongly call our own
because when the war is declared we’ll be in the woods, running from the sky
ARIELLE GREENBERG is co-author of Home/Birth: A Poemic (1913 Press); author of My Kafka Century (Action Books) and Given (Wave Books); and co-editor of three anthologies, including Gurlesque (Saturnalia Books). She lives in Maine and teaches in the Oregon State University-Cascades MFA and in the local community, and writes a column on contemporary poetics for the American Poetry Review.