He
thinks he is made of dust,
a
jar of bumblebees,
shaken
and opened
in
the face of a young playmate:
no
mere reaction to the cult of domesticity.
He
had grand mal seizures as a child.
Now
I aspire to leave behind rainy sidewalks of the
mind,
the
ideology of the gaze,
refractions
of pleasure and authority,
great
vortices of energy and power:
"We'll
let the gooks be the Indians."
The
monumental view:
She
has no wish to be food, nor
a
pastoral image of self-reliance.
She
sings about gardens:
"Once
I styled myself
the
double obscurity of Saskatchewan,
these
shifting rhetorics of self
the
most selfish act
I
could commit . . .
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