Tell me the story now in such
A way that I can hear it and still
Catch my breath. Rage is an aneurysm of the old animal
Brain, the reptilian gorge where nothing counts
But the body’s urge & its boudoir
Of sulk and felt and shame.
Tell me I have heard tell there is a city
Where the graves float on the inconstant rain
Not fanciful, but accidental, actual—like milkstone
Spirits perched atop the smallest unbound human
Forms who died as insignificants.
For me, it is too late in the story
To die young, or guileless. I’d wanted once to love
Your mouth on mine, its ether
Gasping through a gauzy
Metal mask; I’d wanted to be breathed and taken
To an actual, like an addict floating on a desperate tiny river
Of open iridescent pigeons’ wings and the floating poplin
Smocks of dusky, spoony girls.
As if I could breathe still.
— Lucie Brock Broido, ‘The Insignificants’