All I know is that
If it’s mine it must
Be a superior thought
Or I’d say God must
Be grooming me
To be the next Dostoevsky.
Take today: I feel
My influence solving
All the problems of the world
And everyone I’ve seen
In the grocery store tonight
Knows it—they look my
Way as if they see a halo
Round my head and why else
Does the cashier card me for the
Beer I buy except to see herself
This savior by a name, adding,
With a grin, “Does this work?”
As she scans the largest tube
Of K-Y jelly in the store. 

White Supremacy

My bad:
Two six-packs of Miller after midnight
To celebrate a day’s clarity,
The perfect paganism of Physics
As on July 20, 1969.
And now:
Cursed invariable brain knot
Bed of nails, the collapsed IQ
To 58
With all its ancillary helpless visions, unmediated:
From the Haitian
Social worker handling the welfare intake
And tons of paperwork,
To the Black Muslim psychiatrist
Weighing ECT under
Jewish supervision:
Forgive my Southern roots.

Louise Glück Rewrites Anne Bradstreet’s ‘To My Dear and Loving Husband’

My body, your body
Embraced as a passion
Before mind began
To fatten into reason
Aging as we were
With children.
So: for a few years
The sex was good?
Yes, so what?
You never made
Enough money
But enlightened my
Childhood ideals
With only desire, nightly
Calling my bluff
(Ten times with restraints
Bedpost to bedpost)
A woman a hundred times
Better read than you (at least
In Greek myth)
And I will never forgive
You for that: But You!  You!
You forgive me for me!
For projections never
More fearful, never more dire
For a horror, a vengeance
I will miss more than