Alice Friman ____________________________________________
Autobiography: The Short Version
I was born under the sign of Libra: up
down, teetering for balance: a spider,
all scurry and retreat, or the brass lamp
lighting up a room.
What I wanted was fulcrum—
the point of the knife: danger and no sleep.
What I got was desire, hard edged,
gleaming and perfect.
For that I was never forgiven.
I shouted huge, terrorized each day
with a violent fondle to make it give,
imitated the anteater tonguing sweetness up—
or the bear, honeycomb for the taking.
Learning to lie like that . . . that came later.
How to count your days as more
than cracks in a sidewalk. How to say
No, not for a moment to crackers and milk
or the hand-me-down life. How to not
see yourself taped up in the lobster tank—claws
and clappers scraping a slow motion against glass.
How else are we supposed to live,
seeing the boulders in the field sporting
their blue brooches of lichen or the cold night sky
tipsy in sequins and runaway fire?
