Questions In The Mind Of A Poet While She Washes Her Floors
Will obedience leave me unknown to myself, stranded?
Is it enough for me to know where I'm from?
If I do more truth-telling will I be happier with what I say?
If I had three days to live would I still be sensible?
Is the break between my feelings and my memory
the reason I'm unable to sustain rage?
Am I a peninsula slowly turning into an island?
If I grew up gazing at the ocean would I think
life came in waves?
If I were a nomad would I measure time
by the length of a footstep?
If I can see a cup drop to the floor and shatter
why can't I see it gather itself back together?
If a surgeon cut out my mistakes
would the scar be under my heart?
How much time will I spend protecting myself
from what the people I love call love?
Would my desires feel different if I lived forever?
Will my desires destroy my politics?
Is taboo sex the ultimate aphrodisiac?
If I fall in love with the wrong person
How do I learn to un-in love myself?
Can I make my intuition into a divining rod?
Is music the closest I can get to God?
How many of these questions will remain
when I kneel to wash my floors again?
