Shoving my shoulder against a door that says PULL;
on my way out I’ll remember to try pulling.
Back home in the suburbs I was sapped by the carpets.
Now there is nothing soft enough in my apartment.
The sky was my own though it has its law.
Forever unfair are the uses of love.
First God said fiercely, YOU CAN’T LOVE EVERYONE.
Then, hang it up, Sally, you can’t love EVERYone.
I can leave a start sailing toward its lost name,
put perpendicular memory drops down.
Fear between a thousand specks in the huge painting:
What lines might they form if my eye is not careful.
Noah’s was a lovely story for children
Until I was so many bodies in the water.
They didn’t stage an accident they arranged
for an accident with the cameras rolling.
You had to know the blackened heart in me was yours.
I’ll find your muddled fingerprints are everywhere.
At the emergency entrance to Saint Vincent’s
Hospital, there is always blood on the sidewalk.
Jacob ran a matchbox truck over my toes
up one leg, across the knees, down the other leg.
The passport clerk interrupts: the emergency
is not someone sick but your flight leaves Friday.
When her little girl cries and Dianna asks
What’s the matter, she answers I CRYING!
In his new life Joshep Coenell must be small, Strange
little changes keep appearing in his boxes.
I never understood why on a still hill –
side, one leaf was whirling mutely in circles.
Sally Fisher is the author of The Square (Abrams, 1995) and two children's books published by Viking. Her poetry has appeared in Chelsea, Field, New Directions, Poetry East, Shenandoah, and other magazines and anthologies.