I’m told Joni Mitchell took my newborn baby feet into her palms,
Called them sweet cashews and kissed their soles.
I lay there in my Father’s arms, a sedated frog,
A fleshy spit of fresh molecule juice.
I’m told my body is shaped like a Renaissance.
Every socket holds a potential revolution,
My gate syncs to Preludes in the key of D minor.
I’m told women have more nerve endings in their hands than men.
That this is a scientific fact.
I’m told Galileo wept at how big his hands looked, how small they felt,
While pointing at the stars.
A book written by every one of God’s representatives tells me
Salvation is for everyone except God.
I’m told your poems are about me. All of them.
Even when they’re about “Jennifer”.
Even when dedicated to “Mother.”
I was told we met in the 90’s. You shook my hand and told me
I would not remember you saying that I am the love of your life.
I’m told in 38 years I will lose a child.
The psychic on Astor Place only charged me $10 out of sympathy.
I’m told we should write more vague prayers for rock stars
And send them up into the sky on helium balloon strings.
She was told you kept her letters like Bazooka gum wrappers.
You broke her cigarette heart like an addict you thought could be saved.
I took her in my arms that night and melted a warm tongue across her ear,
Until she was drowning in the deafness of Oh,
Until my poetry pulsed from her face like French, Euros in a fountain in Flagstaff.
I told her the only thing you know how to love is the sound of
Cheap plastic high-heels on pavement. That as a lover, you are simple.
(I made sure you were told.)
I’m told there’s a balcony where my old dresses are hung to dry in Detroit.
I’m told they buried the body with the garter belt still on.