Endurance in Yielding

Courtney Druz

I store my silk dresses in the shed,
I write my name in the triplet of its origin,
uniform, uncapitalized, a breath

out, caught and gone. I am known
by my chapped hands and by what they touch:
this cold gray water where my visage sinks

scrubbed out with the rest of our coverings
could be my name more than could erase it,
could carve itself in stone. I am here

brought by water, soaked in it. I carry
and repair, but everything breaks again,
falls, drips; dirt breaks down the broom.

My sleep is spent on breathing, my breath
is sleep. I dissolve. I am here
but rearranged. Taste me in this air.