Proximity: the poet Jackson. Get uncomfortably close.
I dream a dog,
large, yellow, short-chained
to the rear wall of my house,
in sun, rain,
starlight, lunging
and snarling. Its man comes
and goes. I can stand the days,
I say, but at night
can’t you keep it
at yours? He doesn’t answer.
I can’t get past the teeth
to loosen the chain.
I ate scrambled egg
out of your letterbox
In the dream your house
was across the street
from mine
Mine had a leaking roof
a falling-down pergola
an overgrown garden
and a view of
your fence
While you were out
I sneaked across
to eat the scrambled egg
I needed
a better dream
reading the poems of women
born the same year as my mother
unaccountably
a homespun hat
a handloomed cloth
she’ll leave me
paintings of cats
with flowers
she’ll leave me
a blanket-stitched potholder
a gingham apron
unaccountably I fold
into tears
If only a woman could get a jacket
with an inside pocket
an elegant fit around her broad shoulders
and sleeves that didn’t expose her wrists
If only a woman could get some gloves
to neatly sheath her gracile hands
without webbing
her long fingers
If only a woman could get some boots
to let her walk wherever she wants
without hurting her back
or binding her toes
The world might be okay, after all, if a woman
could do that