“Poem for Ken Wolman” by Sharon Rauenzahn
You inhabit a world mapped by your own fears:
Remembered hatred encircles the doorknob here;
There the body of an old love sprawls on the floor.
The echos of taunting children bounce from the walls,
Sonar navigation in a world where love is born blind.
Is that a stain on the carpet, or blood from an old wound?
Or is it merely the remnant of a spilled drink,
Poured out in supplication or thanksgiving or just slopped over,
The overabundance of a Good Cheer neither felt nor expressed
But imposed by time and company and some festive season?
The bed is a continent of its own, where tectonic motion
Occurs more in slow drift than megathrust events.
In a dark corner of the room, on the computer desk perhaps,
The learned cartographer has scrawled “Here Be Dragons”
In the margins of Kinsey and Shere Hite.
Here be not dragons: it is only the Worm,
Who wraps the world around, and swallows his own tail
Where he ought to consume the earth.
July 24, 1995