“The actor is an athlete of the heart.”
by Catherine Bresner
What an ordinary wound this is
that I poke-poke with grubby
fingers tending to the past.
I stand near the bathroom mirror
a naked wet shadow
against the shower curtain scrim
of a forest that I stand in.
To believe in a thing is to nurse
a small baby in the brain until that
baby grows up to resent you for living
the way that you do. Still, what a comfort
to believe in Jesus, for instance, caspering
around our houses, nudging our tender elbows
off the table. We can be such delicious liars.
I prayed like hell in the hospital
& it wasn’t your fault that the party
was fucking awesome.
& It’s not my fault
you couldn’t handle your shit.
Everyone was there
& then they weren’t.
We lived by accident,
& then only sometimes.