What is the arc, the angle of my bent light?
Do I send it out or wait for my receipt from the brown van?
Will he notice when I forget how to sign my name?
This amnesia is a product of the small boxes inside rather than of the larger ones he has in the back.
He never tells me his name anymore. It used to be Bruce, or Walter.
I can have my entire life delivered.
These boxes contain, for an example, my husband: prescriptions, a shirt he can’t bother to try on, books no longer in the bookstore, a torso.
If I send him to his colleagues, will they recognize him?
Despite myself, I would not do that.
I have the decency bred from production of children, the internalizing of all those public ideas which remained blessedly outside until I was already overfull. And then.
Now they skirt me on the way to ice cream, the park, the pub.
I call after them “warm coat,” “vegetables,” “kindness.”
What is it to be illuminated? Is it to find oneself scrawled on by monks with a penchant for fart jokes? Is it to contain knowledge no one seeks out?
I unscrew myself from the socket, wear a bathrobe all day long, try to remember my old imprint.