On Solitude
When I look in the mirror
I’m looking for someone
who looks like me
We’re blinking together
I think I’ll take some pictures
to see what we look like
right now,
at this moment
I’m picking up my pills,
the pink one is sweeter
than the white one
the white one is stronger
than the pink one
Wrapping my legs
around each other
to keep them from leaving
it reminds me of Veblen:
advertising one’s function
while preventing
one from performing it
I’m not telling anyone
to leave me alone
If I had to pick an animal
to be I’d pick a fish
to be fishy or a sheep to be
sheepish either way
When I look in the mirror
there isn’t any resemblance
Right now I’m counting the lines
on my lips
opening my lips
for the white one
and the pink one
I don’t want to be strong
without being sweet
When I say hush
nobody disagrees
What I like about self-storage
is you don’t need anyone
to get it out for you
or give it back to you
Secret
I have a secret I don’t know anything about not admitting anything not even moving my lips I’m putting on my gloves to handle my secret not even taking anything for it I’m not even sure what I like about it it’s not just my secret not a selfish secret I have a partner I’m keeping my secret from a secret partner she doesn’t know anything she doesn’t even know she’s my partner when my secret is painful it doesn’t hurt my partner it doesn’t hurt my partner when I’m hurt I’m giving her one of my gloves when I talk to my partner we’re not even moving our lips honestly we don’t even know what we’re not talking about not admitting anything we’re not going to deny
If I Die Today It’s Not My Intention
to lift my face
or cover it up
like a piece of lace
when it’s dark or cold
enough not picking up
anything I need to hold
on to like a serif font,
I’m not even angry
except maybe a little bit more
than usual, recently
I noticed that every time I pour
something it spills or overflows
I’m buttoning up the front
and leaving the back open in case
I need to leave from the rear,
not picking anything up
that I’m not holding on to in here
when I’m pulling on my lips
to make a place
for the shadows
passing over me like sailing ships
and the shadows pressed
under me like a rest
period
Taking the Body Apart and Putting It Together
When you take it apart it belongs to you because it’s no longer what it is.
When you put it together it’s easier to imagine it belongs to you, otherwise it wouldn’t be what it is.
Taking it apart in my room,
or wherever it is,
I mean there isn’t a right answer or a wrong answer.
Taking it apart to look inside, or look more closely, like a story you can’t even read until you’ve already read it,
there isn’t just one way to put it together,
I’m not saying there isn’t a wrong way,
not even being selective,
you need to trust the liver and spleen and so forth
even when you don’t know what they’re up to.
Not taking it apart just to put it together, we’re not having that conversation.
I’m being gentle,
I have a brush made from goat’s hair for the delicate areas.
I often pretend I’m taking it apart so I won’t have to put it together, as in a story about a person who’s not in the story.
Taken apart and put together, like a kind of atonement.
Sometimes it comes apart deliberately, as if it is trying to help,
I believe it’s helping me.
Then I put it together.
Under the Tent
It was here when we got here not even waiting outside or waiting to get in the value of real estate doesn’t depend on where it is honestly we’re so close to each other we don’t even need to be friends when you turn away from someone you turn toward somebody else walking toward the person without veering or turning away uncovering your abdomen and enough of your chest so the person knows everything about you it’s the same juicy juice at the end of the straw not even waiting for a bid or the highest bid it’s even worse when it’s not high enough not even undressing until the last minute I mean nobody is interested in anything nobody else is interested in if you have something somebody needs it doesn’t even matter if you’re giving it away or letting it be taken
*****
Peter Leight has previously published poems in Paris Review, AGNI, Beloit Poetry Review, Raritan, Matter, and other magazines.
