Being Beside Myself Is Comforting: poetry by Bianca Stone

I’m going to survey the damage.
If you can beg, you can talk.
It’s true, if you carry on breathing,
it only makes the begging all the more difficult.
And anyway, when standing beside you, I’m really

beside myself, saying
What the fuck is wrong
with this universe that we can’t take off our clothes
and get on with it
without shuddering.

Last night I dreamed I was explaining to my mother
about the way I cooked my own turkey.
That I almost forgot to remove the little heart and liver;
that I tied the legs together with bailing twine and rubbed it with rosemary.
You never cook anything long enough, was all she said.
Which made me think of the way
you used to listen carefully
like a house no one lives in anymore.

It’s one way to beg the universe to speak.
I keep doing creepy things
like running my hands through the air
and saying I’m right here.
I keep dragging your face out of its mansion of hair
and loving it all over again.

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