If only something horrible would happen; the revelation
of a child, hit for the first time, an overturned corpse
on the lawn, if only something ugly would happen
to my lover, or to me, something that would follow me
like a kid lost in the woods while I was hiking,
follow me until I died,
something that would forever turn my head fifteen degrees
to the right, and drop my gaze as if it weighed
so much that it was stuck to the rug. If only murder,
or indifference, or both. If only something fake horrible
would happen, Jennifer Love-Hewitt would be
convincingly bloody and bruised, but she'd be
standing next to her costar, sharing a laugh.
Someone, throw both shoes at President Bush.
A bloodbath. A grenade. An apocalypse
involving a very close family and unlikely travel.
If only the world would break. If Medea
would just pin her children's corpses to the helm of her chariot
and ride off into the sun.
If only a pack of men would pin my gaze to the floor
and slightly to the right, mix me up so bad
that I stutter when I try say their names, so that
I could kill one in self-defense with an ice skate
that I found, by chance, on the floor without looking;
if only I could hide their descriptions in coffee cans,
which I would fill with nails and strike-anywhere
matcheads, and I would have a public place to drop it on,
unequivocally the victim, now the perpetrator,
the lines so clear, please, God, I think they misunderstood
when you said let there be light, you meant lines,
let there be lines as unequivocal as the ones drawn
between the elbow and the palm of a veteran in a bathtub,
let there be good, and bad, and torture, and distinctions,
no conflict, no innovation, no relief, no stories to tell,
just lines and events, a chart of everything
that has ever happened, geometrical, abhorrently practical.
Let all the pain of the earth rise up into my graph paper
until it is simply math, elegant, concrete.
Let there be lines.