from Kafka's Conversation Slips

You must understand, for the time being,
that I am without flowers. The Viburnum

outside the window sways. Its throbbing
keeps time with the wind and the ravens.

Here and there yellows turn, rust over
as if with illness. The doctor has found

no cure for moods. I used to like to walk
downstairs into the world. There a family

ate and drank. My sisters' cheekbones high,
their eyes bright and well slept. I was punished

for not being an entrepreneur—for
wanting to write. You must remember me now.

The stories waited to be born. Labor
after labor between bouts of illness.

I ask my awful god for an appetite!
I lift a bowl from the wooden table

to the cupboard fitted with glass panes.
My arm weighs more than all Mama's fine

China gathered in the low boy, hemmed in.
Father was handy with his hammer and nails.

Would that I might sense a little gaiety.
I'd take up the charcoal stick, shave thin rounds

from its black tip. I'd sketch the vibrant tree
whose roots, leaves, and seeds hold poison.