Let’s face it: I’ve taken liberties. Be they bodies
up from being sunk, be they bubbles uttered out the mouth.
This history hasn’t happened yet. All is
as was before: my head
is crawling with lice-like have and to be words.
So here: having to be!
Trivial-ectomist to this tree, solving
small problems, cutting
dead buds, clenching my chemical jaw.
Inside, my friend prepares
a mackerel for dinner
while I myself will (by myself, beside myself)
still be sitting
beside this tree, on the hung swing, where there’s always another thing
or refrain from.
Kary Wayson’s poems have appeared in Crazyhorse, Poetry Northwest, Filter, The Nation, The Best American Poetry 2007, and the 2010 Pushcart Prize anthology, among others. She lives and works in Seattle.