I have spent 30 years trying not to write
this poem.

When we climbed the black stone,
I was already in love
with your feet. I hadn’t

The underworld the bright brochures have shown
declines our courtesy. The rare albino fish
wait in the falls, and the blind salamanders,
ignoring camera flashes, sulk in cracks.

Spoiler alert: Jean Stafford, in her
all-but-out-of-print masterwork

It was not unlike a raccoon
when I found it by the highway.

                There was a bees’ nest over the door.
My husband sprayed it then swatted
most of it down with a broom.

As if in answer to a primordial urge,
I longed for something
to which to

Crazy Annie walking down the hot sidewalk in July
don’t go no farther than she’s got to.

I with parchment eyes and anger
am showing you small creature child
this ocean the color of intense sky

Also you stink. I have to turn away.
But still I reach for you.