Is it crazy to want to unravel
like a dandelion gone to seed,
leaving nothing behind but a dent
or not even that to touch or burn
or remember. This is the way
winter begins--
with the angry moth
who grips the window screen
and freezes into an opal.
Well, that's one way to go--
just get harder. Or I could dissolve
as disobedient women do in the Bible
their solemn salt hands still pointing
to the pleasures of sin.
I could evaporate or liquify
or become dust or turn sideways
before a funhouse mirror
to become a needle
becoming nothing.
I could scream so mightily
that only sound would survive.
I could cry myself dry,
be sifted by the desert wind
that burns my summer gold hills.
Or I could fly apart
and watch my whirling blood
form galaxies in the air,
spatter on the men
who hammer to death
the trees and remark
that a woman just
was standing there
