No. 6
[Here's taking a stab at something different.]
MANTRA: You’re such a fucking martyr, Ginger.
[Misuse
of the word martyr here.
My own happiness is
my only cause.
But OK]
What would make this real for you?
You're a big girl. Figure something out.
FIGURE: You on a stump massaging your arches,
your crimson rucksack curving my back.
FIGURE: Ivy choking the wildflowers in our garden.
FIGURE: Trauma as coin of the realm
& you wearing out the arms at nickel slots.
You need a fetish for your failures. I am that fetish.
Perhaps we’d better not bring up the sex.
You’re such a fucking martyr, Ginger.
[Oh, I get it now.
You’re Jesus & I’m Rose of Lima.]
I forgot how pretty I was wearing your thorns--