Caroline Crumpacker, p.2


Where would you imagine we are standing,
Sir, Sire, Soldier of androgyny?

Not near enough to be causing you sensation

This is the story of one day there was and then blank.
This is the story of “Blank brought me here.”
This is the story of “He brought me here.”

Six o’clock and my work is ready for defense.

The professors wear trousers and the demoiselles wear my work.
I wish it was in vogue.

The novelist who wrote his book on lotus blossoms, I love
his couch and his nineteenth century. I love the small woman
he calls friend. But that’s it. The novel is full of excuses.
Under every hoop skirt is a fall out the window, so what?

Look, the little girls are ready for the next lesson.

the privileged pretend to be implicated as in glamour boy
pouting on the beach but why, what has sailed away?
Is it his address? Is it his idealism? Doesn’t he remember
the sweetheart he had back in the sands?

The implication is of privilege.
Darling. There is a white dress.
Darling. There is a lingonberry taste.

The rain was less fashionable after the discussion
of the rain. The discussion was more like an affectation.
Such affectation causes, well, rain.

Which brings me back to You.
Weak with power, huge with weakness.
I would not crack your back by standing on it
but by pointing out what you are thinking.

Cold like a lake in the middle of nowhere.
Tasting of metal.
Cold like the tiny window that closes on the 4th floor
of a grand maison. Inside is a sick child calling for lemon.

That is your work station, that is your third medallion.
Return it. Others have been here before you and their nothing
is better than yours.