Hysteria

My womb was floating and I was on it

like the Jetsons.

Hysterical laughter

driving on a highway.

Under the bridge hysteria.

What is the womb doing now, hysteria?

And the blackbirds baked in the pie—

they not only had to die

but entertain the king. Poor things!

Like glass dipped in a barrel of oil,

and the Vesuvius of each tiny headdress.

And now I keep intruding on a conversation

I’m having with myself.

It’s irresponsible to despair.

And so I am hysterical enough for now.

Although I didn’t always know hysteria was tapping like a knife

all along the rim of my life.

I confess: I have so much practice in forgiving myself

even for hysterical gossip:

breaking into a greenhouse at night

and I can’t see what I trample.

The stalks shattered,

the pots of soil overturned,

and yet the fragrance.

Hysteria inside the never opened book.

Dear book, you with your stiff  love,

your breathless labors,

you who never gave birth to a reader.