Imagine I'm the last woman on earth,
the snowiest plover, the loneliest
deep-sea-swimming whale. It's not my fault, but
it might be. Should I keep changing until
I become something that has an other?
I've tried that. What else can I do for love?
Now not even the gray wolves listen to my
long litany of failures. They know I'm just
putting this self-sadness in my mouth—
a polar bear crunching seal bones between
her teeth—to get what little I can from it.
They still won't let me blame myself:
When I tell them my name isn't a song
to sing, they call it back to me again and again.
jubilat Number 21
Copyright © 2012 by Keetje Kuipers
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission