Where Is She?
Joseph Young

We feel her in the woodwork, bumping. Sometimes she sits on the basement floor. Is she dead? What is dead when she still takes light? Our faces take light. Dead is an empty o.

She types. Clacks out long letters. An affinity for ink, blue and mostly black. She gets into my pen. She is the mass of P's and W's themselves.

She waits in the bathroom for you to undress. Naked elemental. She loves the hard light of linoleum and mirrors.

When the cars go by, she laughs. Throats of engines, she sings. Voices out of carburetors and dogs.

Death is a rotten weight, but she is newly wet. Where then, where is she?