Frances Klein

from no one. When I put to my lips the distempered

plums that have divorced the branch I realize

what struggle this begs of the bees, the additional distance

they must now travel to sweeten their hives. I parch

rather than turn the spigot, rather than add one more

minute to the rust scraper’s day, him with his rake-toothed

broom sweeping the pipes below our feet. Fish roil

the placid water, competing for the chance

to throw themselves into my boat. I cast them back.

I cannot stomach the flenser’s knife, the effort

required to steady the hand that debones each filet.

My selflessness shapes me. I grow thin and thick-

jointed and slow, yet I cannot let myself vanish.

I do not want anyone to go to the trouble of looking for me.

Poetry