Now
By Hilda Raz
Some problems of self-loathing, worry:
the thumbnail blotched in a bank box
door grows out, three-quarter moon marrow spot
filled out with white bruise travels down
my thumb at regular speed, so when I glance
down it's what I see left of center, not
the odd breast, the malformed scruff
at head, the old thought leaking pain
on the pages from my brain, which ought
to be gainfully occupied with rain
as an emblem of loss and gain, and is not.
Copyright Credit: Hilda Raz. "Now" from Divine Honors copyright © 1997 by Hilda Raz and reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.
Source: Divine Honors (Wesleyan University Press, 1997)