From the shaker hymn

How can I be content with this: the simplest 
and most primitive arrangement of time? Moon 
is careful with her breathing and these nights I cannot look away. Out there through
the third-story screenless, she inhales, counting steadily up–breast pale, belly swollen.
Tomorrow morning I was born; tomorrow morning I will be born again. Baby
cries—I rock my rough 
body side to side like a pocket watch held 
out by the chain. I am counting seconds again, trying to cradle 
the moment just before inhale becomes 
exhale… Not too long ago, the half-empty parking lot behind 
our apartment building was allegedly an Eden. Two births ago, I was a girl but only barely, and
now I will never be a girl again. There must have been a moment in which I held the maximum
possible amount of girlhood within myself and hadn’t yet yielded to the wane. For one
night–yes, for one night only!–Moon 
holds a whole world’s worth of darkness within her 
and downright refuses to let any of it go. 
Side to side to side to side: clocks don’t turn 
like they used to anymore. I count– 
I am so careful 
with the rhythm of my breath. Moon 
sighs knowingly–it is too late, sweet. She reaches in, 
strokes my hair with her cool, white hand. 

Baby bends and whines; Eden turns 
in its sleep. Hours come down the easy way, 
the way they always have, and, at midnight, again, I am born, and Moon
begins her long exhale. How can I be content with this: 
the simplest and most primitive arrangement 
of time? It never really ends; 
it just stops.
To everybody (yes, everybody!): 

If i had a phone company i could tap whomever i wanted to tap. // in the morning i could listen to the Nation’s conversations to inform myself about its “soul.” before bedtime // i could listen just to amuse myself, // or as comforting white noise. 
If i had a stovetop and a little copper saucepan // i could drink thin soup from the government for
dinner every evening, warmed up not-too-hot // (that is, just right). 
If i had an address i could make sure // the Department of State always knew what it was, just in case
// i ever needed an American Hand. 
If i had an American Hand i could hold it // in my own hand, feel the warm-soft skin of His sweaty
palm on the dry-peeling calluses of mine // and we could stroll across the State on a sunny day // on
the narrow walking trail beside the parkway // where the birds sing in harmony with the automobiles
// in the morning. 
If i had a dictionary i could swap the definitions of just a few words // just for the sake of it–
peace/control, save/destroy, callous/cage, etc– // just to see if anyone would notice. if i had a few great
words to describe // the horror i witness through // my toxic little cobalt screen machine // i would
write the words down into great letters // and send them to all the people of the Nation // whose
phone calls i could have listened to without their knowledge // every morning and every night. 
If i had the Nation’s attention // after writing my words into great letters // i would become renowned worldwide as an influential American // writer! // who is proud of his enormous artistic individuality
// more than anything else.
If i had a newspaper // or a magazine // I could be mostly very truthful to everyone // and when The
Man offered me an impossible-to-refuse deal // I could still say to him, “oh no, Mr Weisner, that’s okay
for now, but maybe next time, when i am in need of an American Hand.” if i had a scorpion // i could
feed it pill bugs and invasive beetles and even other, littler scorpions // for its meals. we could eat
dinner together always, at a big round table, // listening to chopin’s collected sonatas in chairs // with cushions tied on. during the days, // i could keep it in a large, comfortable cage. 
If i had a guitar i could polish it every night // for one whole hour after finishing my thin soup from
the government // for dinner. i could gaze at it with furious longing // and wait for the day when i
would wake up // and suddenly know how to play it, how to play it beautifully.