Rice: Poems

My Centipeding Self

39 My Centipeding Self for now without cane I move like an ocean of turbulent women trails all leading south I look behind me as I go and there they are all of them the All of me still crossing the street holding up more traffic than any one young woman could if I stop to hurry them they will snarl the roads even more so I keep going stay my eyes ahead I am 35 thundering rainy-eyed women today I stand still for lights but they don’t they cross whenever however they wish why do I wait then is this hesitation kin to arthritis? I don’t want to know my feet get wet in the hydrant water that gushes me along it is all the way up to my thighs I dig my toes down deeper 40 in this 35 feet of wet sand that the world is slowly becoming and the line of them (the line of myselves) is still crossing I yell at them to hurry to get across so that the traffic can go again so that the people can get on get back to their too-busy selves but I am not yet all across and there is nothing I can do with any of them anymore so nothing moves the light changes again and again I turn and twist and they all stretch in the middle but never separate like something fingery and human has touched the earthworm’s belly I am 35 I want to cross over but someone in the Volkswagen impatiently-desperately starts to go and all the other traffic follows her lead I scream but one of these women that I am juts up her hand for me to shut up she knows more than me she is at the end 41 I am only the head the traffic moves again right on through a steady stream of Black translucent Me’s and the spawning river of my whole self never stops and I recycle this worry and stop looking back and marvel at all the places where the cars have hit and I have never run ...