Got my finger on it
My mother holds my hand but flickers from joint to joint.
She pokes and pushes and presses and does not rest
my hand in hers, and so does not rest.
I’ve been spending the time
she spent in acupuncture school fingering
through mixmaster ads in old LIFE magazines and thinking
about my own Mystique. I speak less
than I listen. I think more than I did
about the people who print me pictures and squeeze my knuckles.
I think (more or less) that I’ve got morals, that I’d have fancied
Miss Billie Jean King.
The battle of the sex is
remembering that I can rest
my wrists here on my ribs no matter how sticky. It’s tricky:
thinking. Quite the fickle ordeal,
but at least I know now
where I learned to name Problems.
Perhaps the point is pressure;
perhaps in jotting these here lines I’ve crossed the
threshold of thinking into
something less Crimson, more Clover.
And less is more I guess, so
I’ll pick a lover
who (more or less) gets that
reference and I’ll stop the thinking