By: Mary Kane

I could stay in bed
all day long, eating
a noun here, another there – radish,
melon, poem, friend.
But I have this body
so like a happy dog
that wants to walk
because it’s a beautiful cold gray
January morning. The dead
oak leaves that hang on
say to me, You are only
who you are. The dead novelist
aswirl in her thousands
of kaleidoscopic sentences
says, This is what it looks like
to be dead. Eat all the books you can
and if you are dreaming
and find yourself in a rowboat
that’s about to tip,
don’t worry too much; the water
in that dream is not unkind.