How

How did I kneel down to this,
Which just bears the name of “living,”
But has no heart involved?

It has become the life of the lolling eyes
Which follow dumbly the movement
Of alternating colors, nothing else.

I have not caressed myself for a long time
With the gentle hand that I once knew.
Now there is only the gnarled fist,
The grasping wrist of labor and loss
That clenched me and drinks,
Drinks of my blood, slowly.

How have I so forgotten my own self,
And not admitted of this person
Who tugs, tugs at my sleeve?

How have I left this pile of shattered glass
Now on the floor of my kitchen for years, years,
Without picking up the broom?

I once believed in myself
In my strength and beauty
When I was not yet an urban woman,
But a girl of leaves and meadows.

Now a heavy darkness has come over these eyes,
Which once shined with a ferocity so bright.

Today I wait,
Like an old cat howling in the rain
For someone to open the door.
I want to find a way back inside.

And I ask how.