My Theory (a poem by Amanda Traxler, taken from the Winter 2007 issue of The Laurel Review)

Hoping to have you, I held the door open.
What wants to enter will in its own time.
But I wanted to own time. As then I wouldn’t feel
as guilty for injuring it: for using its own hands against it.

Without time, there is no place. For desire
to wound with pleasure, one must remember
sharpness is necessary. Also important, delicacy.
How else to control the shape of the scar one hopes to leave?

I found the needle in the haystack. Impaled
a beetle because I needed a shell for shelter.
To drown in a raindrop is more than possible. How small joy can be.


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