Of the Dead White Men

Because some of them crawled on broken



hands and knees to save me



with their poems.



 



Because I was only



wretchedness at the edge of an abyss



of fashion magazines, and that



 



trickle of water down the side of their mountain



into my empty cup, which I refused to drink, they



were offering that to me.  Because



 



I washed my face in their blood.  Because



I tossed my hours in their coffins.



Because I was otherwise just dust rising off



a lampshade.  My



tatters in rags without them:



 



A girl blinded by her own hair



riding her bike somewhere—



stupid, dying



for want of what



was written there.



 



A glittering starvation, forgiven.  Willing



to burn their hands for me



to deliver it, burning



while I denied that it was burning.



 



I was like a child outside a cave of snow



that had collapsed on her fathers.



I laughed, wildly, for a little while.



 



And then I screamed.



 



And then I pouted.



 



Then I grew older, and had to begin



to dig my own pitiful little



hole with a teaspoon to get to them.