Elena Tomorowitz


I am sleeping with the reader
of my poem. He says he likes it.

I cover his body in knits
and afghans. He plays the part

of the politician, I play the part
of the pollution, hovering over

him, pushing cigarettes
into his mouth. We aren’t yet

married, but he wants
to be the one on top.

We play together like birds
with heavy bodies.

He can’t seem to get off
the ground without falling.

I can’t hollow my bones
enough to make me lift.

I am the never ending ending
and the bones, they never get thinner


And what was worse than your life
was your death, washed up on shore.
Seagulls flew backwards.
The space in your nervestrings
hardened, widened, searched
for sunlight, anything in sunlight.
Shadows only small enough
to wrap their fingers around
your wrist, count to sixty,
wait for rhythms.

Mercury got too hot and bumped
into Venus, found a small plant
that grew in between them.
Some scientist must have left
it there, some scientist wanted
to study its breath in a great vastness.


I scattered pieces of me between airplanes.
I dropped a hair
near Hotel Rose on the Rhine.
I clipped my finger
nail on a balcony in Innsbruck.
I spit off a mountain
top in Lucerne to make
a wish to wake me up.
I had no money

for the people in the valleys.
All I could do was twirl my dress
like the feathers of a peacock,
stop the cuckooing
that mocked me in the distance,
and gaze towards what
is missing between cliffs
and clouds. My breath

lost itself in a gust.
It blew away from the space between
my teeth towards the space
below your eyeball-lids,
a cheek snowburned and red,
a single hair swinging
like a pendulum across your nose.
You were one more thing
I forgot to bring with me

and my luggage was already filled
with spiders


%d bloggers like this: