I care nothing for this,
the ragged edge,
the expressionless lack,
the draw of vertigo.
I am what is broken
like the iron cupids on this bed,
their twinned bodies, a frieze
crooked between spindle and post,
their eyes and lips chipped
beneath red centuries of paint.

Open any closet and you will
find my intentions hanging -
I want everything of you,
all truth, all allegory,
your touch.
Hinges convulse and groan.
Wind rides the banister, stomps
like a bitter child. I am
singular in the damp impulse
of my skin. In this hour,
nothing so gentle as rain.

Carol Hobbs

CAROL HOBBS is the Administrator for PoemWorks. Her writing has appeared in journals and anthologies in the United States, Canada, and Ireland. She was awarded a PEN New England Discovery Award 2004 for her poetry manuscript, New Found Laude.