WEBVTT

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I want to read a--
one new poem tonight.

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I might as well do it right now.

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And this poem came-- the first
draft came to me last spring,

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in New York City.

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And I revised this poem over
the summer, in Paris and Berlin.

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Wait, did I just become-- did
I really utter that sentence?

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[LAUGHTER]

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Have I become one
of those poets that

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says, I wrote this sonnet
on the banks of the Spree?

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I'm kind of embarrassed.

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I wrote this poem
somewhere in the summer.

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It goes with a working
title, "Rosary."

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I hate the title.

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So if you have any
suggestions after the reading,

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feel free to give them to me.

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"Delirious, touch starved,
I pinch a mole on my skin.

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I pinch and pull, until
I'm holding a black rosary.

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Prayer will not cool my face.

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Prayer will not thin my thighs,
will not melt my belly fat.

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A copper face man once
called me beautiful.

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Stupid, stupid, man.

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I'm obese.

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I'm worthless.

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I can still feel his
thumb, bitter, burled,

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moving in and out of my mouth.

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His thumbnail a
little heap of sugar

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he would not allow
me to swallow.

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Desperate for the sting
of snow on my skin,

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rosary tight in my fist,
I creep into a closet,

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crawl into a wedding dress.

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Oh Lord, here I am."

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