Kabalah, and: Wound

Kabalah

What intrigues me now are the interstices:
bone marrow cavity, the Ausable Chasm,
the new indentation along my forearm. An analyst

friend suggests it is morbid, funereal, (perhaps
I should see him officially). I think it is more
philosophical, kabalistic perhaps,

in that I find the space between things,
between intention and meaning, between
the gesture and the brushstroke, more compelling.

There is a painting I have in mind by Anselm Keifer,
a large gray canvas with a distressed shard of lead
on top, below which a dress with several sleeves

billows. This I believe. It is about a woman
in her mid-thirties who has suffered great deprivation,
(perhaps a child died), and who ultimately ascends

all ten stages to oneness, to holiness, each plateau
a barely perceptible ledge - in between, the vast yawn
of God's breath.

Wound

My grandmother used to say
my imagination was unhealthy.
(I think of her a lot lately.)

I had set up intricate games
and my rules required that
each participant choose a piece

and tell the story of its journey
from beginning to end. Mine
might take two hours.

My protagonist sometimes lived
a simple life and always died
at the end. Angela comes in

to change the dressing.
She says it is healing nicely.
Outside a jet streams by. It is

as distant as a straw blown
from a crystal glass at breakfast
on a small skiff near the equator.