Melora Creager, ELBOW, 2018
This, My Porcelain Life
This letter, you burn it, forget it.
It’s not what I meant to say.
You might think me a scape-grace- really a fugitive in decay.
I exist here on an acre of nature in the diminutive.
But I’ll be thinking of you, I would wager— my favorite hypocrite.
You are a master at the commerce of friendship, so I put all of my feathers on.
I wrote you this letter, I’ll send it, when this foul weather is gone.
Of your last words to me I am thinking and of the depth of your eyes,
But you can’t stop the profound shrinking of this, my porcelain life.
You’re vexed that I reject your protection. Well, I abhor captivity.
I want to live alone in my little section, so very wild and watery.
How to preserve my own mistaken perfection or your refined vulgarity?
I only tenuously ask you this question out of a sincere wish for clarity.
You are a master at the commerce of friendship, so I put all of my feathers on.
I wrote you this letter, I’ll send it when this foul weather is gone.
Of your last words to me I am thinking and of the depth of your eyes,
But you can’t stop the profound shrinking of this, my porcelain life.
