S. Brook Corfman

Poem

I was having outsized reactions
that I felt were appropriate

but not telling anyone about them.
I tried on three different

shirts before I gave up
trying to match that feeling.

If I were some other kind
of artist, I would be an abstract painter.

I like how the shape
can hold a feeling, the way a vase

holds water, or glass, heat.
When the line continued

into the auditorium, I looked
a landscape into existence.

There is little t and big T
trauma and the little t

is more relational.
That is, it’s about an overpowering feeling.

How movement is circumscribed
by a projection of another’s attitude.

Does milkweed float?
When I began this poem, it included

a stanza about tears
I’ve since removed. There is an outer circle

and an inner one, and then
there is just me.

Working with middle schoolers,
I wanted to spend the rest

of the day with them,
to ensure no one used what I gave them

to cause them harm.

Poem

I woke up twice today. I had some sense.

I was sharing room. Then summer, surrounded. Then less space.

I don’t normally sleep quietly, I realized, I didn’t need to do it. Then I did.

Over time, rebuilding looked different: naps instead of a trip to the pool.

Even lost lip service, even decorum.

Someone waking up worry. What kind of safety happens in a spinning orb.

I have also been unsafe, and here the three of us are on the couch.

Who will be the first attack.

There is a big window in the front room, a high window to its right. One won’t open, the other won’t lock.

There is a door in my room to the wilderness, barely fenced.

They’ll walk swiftly past one human body towards the other.