I want to read a-- one new poem tonight.
I might as well do it right now.
And this poem came-- the first draft came to me last spring,
in New York City.
And I revised this poem over the summer, in Paris and Berlin.
Wait, did I just become-- did I really utter that sentence?
[LAUGHTER]
Have I become one of those poets that
says, I wrote this sonnet on the banks of the Spree?
I'm kind of embarrassed.
I wrote this poem somewhere in the summer.
It goes with a working title, "Rosary."
I hate the title.
So if you have any suggestions after the reading,
feel free to give them to me.
"Delirious, touch starved, I pinch a mole on my skin.
I pinch and pull, until I'm holding a black rosary.
Prayer will not cool my face.
Prayer will not thin my thighs, will not melt my belly fat.
A copper face man once called me beautiful.
Stupid, stupid, man.
I'm obese.
I'm worthless.
I can still feel his thumb, bitter, burled,
moving in and out of my mouth.
His thumbnail a little heap of sugar
he would not allow me to swallow.
Desperate for the sting of snow on my skin,
rosary tight in my fist, I creep into a closet,
crawl into a wedding dress.
Oh Lord, here I am."