Wandering pariah hallways
with nothing in the camera,
I see no one who does not stare,
I look back and they stare some more.
I invite myself in, they say,
Sit here. They are each courteous,
but none desire to be quiet.
I tell them who I am and they
reciprocate. The bare bulbs blink,
no one’s paid the bill. I pay it,
they agree to sit for me when
I think to bring film. I can help
myself. I’m a brave little girl
when I want to be a grown-up.
I go where there is to be born.
They settle into their dying,
but then they like to kiss and fuck.
They urge each woman and each man,
Do what you want to all your selves.
I can record nothing. Love is
a privacy. Lust makes money.
When the hour is over, is that
how long love takes when it can’t last?
What if I need to be someone
I’m not? Someone who can’t afford
to wear a veil and needs to talk
more than listen. They hear me out.
They reply. A night can go by
before I realize I’m lost.
It’s far better than staying home
among all my well-off shadows.
(to Dee Anne’s specter)
(8 December 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander