(Corymbia citriodora)
I’m by the Lake

reading Jackie Wang’s

grieving turn away from

  another body of water when I

    cross the bridge turn away from

						                              this collection

						                                   of spent vessels still

						                              coursing while a black

						                              swan aerates its middle down

						                              stream. I leave the swan red mouth-
	ed into its host

      body and walk up the

          hill to visit My Kathy Acker.

  There are a few around the neigh-

bourhood but this is the original and

								                              	    the best. She is a

								                              french bulldog in stat-

								                              ure relative to nearby tower-

								                              ing standards and smooth all

									                              muscle body been building here
  for quite some time

	adjacent to this

     forever time waterway.

  She stands in perpetual stre-

 tch one dominant limb—a trunk

					                         —away from the

					                         body of the Lake as if

					                          	a missive poised above her head.

					                         My Kathy Acker could make

					                         me a tree hugger yet. She is glorious
	strong with

	   smooth weather-

	                ed skin pastel pinks 			          	          	          		a uterus—but we

	   and blues scribbly veins				         	          	           	won’t get into essentials

	indicative of the presence of				         	          	           —they preamble up the vent-

								          	          	          	ricle vertical non-stretching arm

								          	          	          pockmarks down her northern most side. 
                                      She is the living

					embodiment of pres-

							ervation of erosion. My

			own private Kathy Acker is

				a limb-loosener when the breeze
  						          fondles gently her lanc-

							          eolate leaves island oil glands sweating lemon-scented

									            semes 		     corpuscular into

									            mass bulging as when freshly baked

					                 bread escapes the score line. A whole matrix of
			her lattice in the attic

		of this matriarch—but we

	won’t get into essentials—each

bulge a conjunction to the built en-

vironment. If, but, and…I cross her and
                    observe 			the breakdown of language

					                    					all

					                    	at  angles.  
					                    How to reconcile the

					                    	        fact of this glory

					                    as a failing?
					                    My Kathy Acker is not

					                    mine and I repeat

					                    this mantra to

					                    myself

					                    	        daily.