How hard it is to draw ourselves up
from the pose of a question mark
into the pose of an exclamation.
The left labia of Poland and the right labia of Russia part
and our heads emerge out of . . .
what?
By now we have sixteen names for snow -
it's time to come up with sixteen names for darkness.

In the pose of a question mark -
with our whole bodies we call ourselves into question,
confirmed by a urine dot.
Is it really us calling into a question?
Or adolescence has just birthed
a rumpled beach towel.

So blunt were
the midwife's scissors
which with time turned into
brightly-polished avenues
jointed by a military obelisk.
A tractor plant started manufacturing hair-rollers
and every Sunday sent mother
a gift basket.
Her head in rollers -
the ideal reconstruction of the solar system -
was photographed for albums and calendars.
The principle of rollers clenching hair
underlay the national production of harvesters.
This became my first metaphor
which I gobbled till my mouth foamed
as if I had swallowed the whole Swan Lake.

My body didn't belong to me.
Bent with pain,
it was making a career out of being a question mark
in the corporation of language.

The bureaucracy of the body drove me to the wall:
head didn't want to think -
let the eyes watch
eyes didn't want to watch -
let the ears listen
ears didn't want to listen -
let the hands touch
hands didn't want to touch -

let the nose smell the body
which blooms with linden flowers of pain.

Where are my bees?
Aren't I sweet enough for them?