I'm no longer drawn
to the disaster parts of the story,
the dense shadows when the shade comes down
just before just before. I used to think,
what a dark spot I am. But there's something
about being tied up that likes to pout
and whimper, that likes to
what she asks you. Hard to imagine,
the other side of the coin, if there were such a coin,
the July sky seamless, my eyes skylights—
enough sun to burn a hole in a leaf.
In the shower where the water's pinpricks,
under the waterfall you can't hear them
tell you what's good for you, what you want,
what it feels like
. If you thought feckless
meant joyless, if you thought the lyric speaker
rattled the slats of the dank little cattle car,
then we prayed to the same maker.
Ira Sadoff lives in Hallowell Maine with his wife, Linda, and two stepkids, Casey and Julie. He is the Dana Professor of Poetry at Colby College, and is currently enjoying a Guggenheim Fellowship. University of Illinois Press published his sixth book of poems, Grazing, in September 1998.