If she goes out shopping late, when everyone’s asleep,
it is not the acquisition of a fancy dress,
but rather a jaunt to set the world on straight,
to apprehend why doors oppose, or are closed
right now, when she is ready to unbend,
when she is actually (hypothetically) ready to spend,
and not, as is the usual case, quite by duress.
So this is not, so to speak,
some window-feminine-shopping-symbol,
some rabbity hopping, from side to side,
a plethora of mannequins all gayly frilled,
of soul self-satisfying reflections
on a sunny-day-with-thrills, some streets
a sea of silvered fish, a crowd
of antelopes on a spree. Instead,
it’s this: the thunder gods
against the race; a set-up of bolted gates
and bars and signs, “We’re closed,
contaminated, we’re pools of radioactive
waste, great swamps in which
you’d better wear your hip-high boots,
or stay away”; this time this page this mark:
a woman’s body used and spent, conflicts
a public world of style and flicks in malls,
and piquant shapes on walls, each store
an everlasting bore. She walks, observes
the perimeter of the place, as if one had merely sat
and read the news. It’s all scattered sheets
and disappearing ink. Wet eyes.
and empty hands. Such is her fate.