Scrapbook

Kim Addonizio

This is me, depressed out of my mind,

frailing the banjo, spilling red wine

on the white

king-sized

luckily-hotel's-and-not-my-

goose down comforter, this is me

walking and waxing nostalgic through the girlish shadows

of tall palm trees, the déjà vus

flying through the scene

suddenly, like those three

unnameable and therefore beautiful white birds.

This is me as a slowly-tearing-itself-apart cloud

and marveling

at a fire palely and flamily

emerging from a bowl, wavering

up through stones of cobalt glass. The air

wavers back. This is me in love

with the beauty of blue glass in flames, this is me on drugs

prescribed by my doctor

as I try once more

to sneak into night's closely guarded city,

my hollow horse ready

to wreak my demons and Blue Morphos

on the citizens of my sleep. I am most

myself when flashing rapidly

my iridescent wings, drinking

the juice of fallen fruit. Then again

look for me under your bed

where the ugly premodern vampires

still hide. The undead and I are lying

in wait. We are very interested in you

though this is still me. We are unstable and true.

We believe in the one-ton rose

and the displaced toilet equally. Our blues

assume you understand

not much, and try to be alive, just as we do,

and that it may be helpful to hold the hand

of someone as lost as you.