I hear the stapler's tiny sighs
as it waits to bite again, the thick complaining
blood trundling through my body, the shaky wheels
of the bicycle the man is riding
in the painting on the wall, the mirror
dripping with desire to see more. The ceiling fan moaning
loss, loss, loss, loss. My youngest dog,
the one who is not yet deaf,
snoring, and the snick of articulated joints
from the little lizards she chases
into the dark. And I
bow my head in the whispering center of all this
faith. Who can I possibly tell, tonight,
that I am still alive?
©
's books are What the Mouth Was Made For and Castaway. Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in journals including Brevity, Mead, and The Buddhist Poetry Review. She teaches at the University of South Florida and is poetry editor of Sweet: A Literary Confection.
We’ve published two more poems by Riegel: “Autumn Birthday” and “Childhood: A Portrait.”
