The child is opaque,
but here is an expression
of pain, as language shifts
to wish. Wish told no.
For A, the emotion
is constant, new language
a new way to ask
the same thing of her listener.
For B, do different words
come from different emotions?
The child is opaque.
B might be trying
to get what is wanted
a different way, or B might have decided
he wanted something else.
When one is on the cusp,
has a wishing well
or a first star seen
each bright night,
and the cusp wanes. The child
is opaque and soon lost
even to the child.
Even to the child
no longer a child.
But if I am still young, the fear
or the wish—
it rises to meet what scrim
of threat, that a changing form
changes not, outwardly, at all—
WHERE WILL WHAT WIND CARRY ME
I can feel myself saying, I used to want to be a girl—
long years of brackets close again in lines.
Fault from rock split space into which a sad animal,
plush, was placed.
It opens. It does not end there.
Only beauty still moves me a dead man writes. The wrong path, or is it,
that in such forms I hope to find a through line, a past
no longer past. It is not that I want to be afraid, but I am.
I face my back to the door find myself
pulled forward as the exiting force.
Where will what wind carry me when I say it:
I have been lying to myself again.
Let one word go even as another does not suggest itself.
S. Brook Corfman is a poet who writes plays, living in a turret in Pittsburgh. This Lambda Literary Fellow's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Conjunctions, DIAGRAM, Ghost Proposal, Gigantic Sequins, and Quarterly West, among other places. @sbrookcorfman