She would do all things in haste, always eating, dropping, burning,
painting, breaking smearing, smearing falling, spilling, breaking, covering
the ceaselessly opening holes between the rows of the unstitched sweater.
Briskly sealing the holes of pain and fear   clinging to the images on the
TV screen       to the gold accumulating on the tar. Looking in, she would
lose contact with the eluding entities. Afraid to sleep, afraid to see,
unable to look at empty things like her dried out soul
withered roses
magical hearts
placed in a sugar bowl instead of sugar or sweets.

Slowly she began to realize that her life is like blue notebook lines that
she must fill with new letters day in, day out      so they can be read
so she can read them over and over again rather than spit her lifetime like
sunflower-seed shells onto a disappearing pile of filth.

To unite with her dead body and stop streaming her blood to other bodies.
To gather her poured body and pour it back into herself.

A State-of-Affairs

like a seamstress who has sewn all scarves
like a sorceress who has charmed all charms
like a witch who has bewitched all witchcraft
like a doctor who has cured all ailments
like a wounded woman who has recovered from all wounds
like a girl who has squandered her youth
like a body emanating with light
like a sheet that has absorbed all bloods
like a laundress who has laundered all apparel
like a cleaner who has scrubbed all stains
like salt that has melted in all vessels
like a traveler who has traversed all spaces
like a juggler who has performed all tricks
like feet that have walked down all paths
like a garden whose flowers have all been plucked
like a seer who has seen all sights
like a dreamer who has dreamt all dreams
like a girl who has begotten all children
like a corpse that strives to gather the dead
sweltering in the sun
accumulating witchcraft, scarves, dreams, fragments, nails, garments, oils, salts
planting her garden of blue roses in Paulina’s soul

Dorrit Yacoby