Tribute

Foucault says
beginnings are difficult
and unpleasant

I suspect
he, too, must have had trouble
getting out of bed some days

Outside the methodical sound of thumping

the Mexican gardeners are at work again.

I don't know where I should be.

I look at the blue plate in front of me
polished clean
I wonder why I never fail to finish my food
yet can't seem to finish anything else in my life.

An article in Glamour says women
need to locate and develop their "love muscles"

It suggests taking deep breaths

followed by short huffs twice or so every day

I wonder why I couldn't be honest with any of the
boys I wanted to love
I wonder why each
in his own way,
became reprehensible to me

And I wonder what they are
all doing now

Most days I feel complete by myself, a single plate,

unbroken and clean

Of course sometimes I ache for the other thing

tongue, fingers and legs entwined in a slick new bodyscape

The knowledge that someone wants me,

if only for a spasmic second

The roar of two infinite cavities crashing together

Glint of hipbone quick against the shadow of another

I try to let such moments pass, since
I am terrified of what happens afterwards:

The silence that settles

as I split apart and come back to myself.

Alone with my finished plate

and the memory of food.

© Jane Park

Published in Massachusetts Review Vol. 45 Issue 3, Autumn 2004.