There’s an interference
in my psyche:
the water is gray
and constantly rolling.
Will birds speak
before the earthquake comes?
It’s in the news now:
water must be saved—
translucent—not
rumbling like this
strange sea in my mind.
I’ve waited for the
olive branch, but doves
cannot be counted on.
They mate and sometimes
draw blood—picking and
pecking—or coo
until they are hoarse,
sounding like bullfrogs
on methedrine.
Desire is the big leveler.
Once I lost all desire.
Passion vanished like
the bile from an
angry liver:
Black Bile Blues—I
guess you’d call it.
Not even a new red
blouse could tempt me.
I said: “If I ever get
my greed back, I’ll
never call myself
shallow again!”
I’m better now.
I could draw blood if
anyone got in my way.
—Loraine Campbell