N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 0 8

INGRID SWANBERG

world sorrow

I think you have

what is called

‘world sorrow’

I say into the phone

out the window

the neighbor’s old yellow dog

lowers his muzzle

carefully to the lawn,

dry convulsions

traveling his bony sides,

his feet planted wide

& legs stiff

for the thrust of vomit

yeah, I’ve got it alright

the dog’s lips froth & curl back,

his teeth bare to the tips of the grass

as if pronouncing

the impeccable

you’re tired

I say

the dog waiting

you need some rest

girlhood

I am prone on the ship rock

peering down the crack

where the Blue-belly lizard lives

guarding his detachable tail

he stares back at me

unmoving

in the cleft shadow

at last I turn over

and lie back

on the sun-warmed granite

to watch the clouds pass

night comes more slowly now

the cold

for all its descriptions

has lost the death bite

and the daylight dies longer,

its pale gold

gathered by

moving clouds

the gas meter

on the southwest side of the house

twists out a turn of intervals

diabolis in musica

over and over again

I have locked the door

against the murderers and thieves,

but no one can keep them out eternally

the thieves so quick with intelligence

the murderers so fragile at heart

the soldier,

proud and still

in his beautiful uniform,

never once raised his eyes

as everyone passed by him

with retching,

wit

and tears

— the leg he would not let them cut

quietly rotting

into the common air

fur bearing

I do not know what kind of beast it was,

but slender and long-limbed

the man grabbed it

flayed it in one stroke

and threw its body to the side.

there it lifted its head

and turned to look

at what had been done

with dark gentle eyes