yesterday was no sun
anywhere but everywhere I can’t
know only my ken my neighborhood
my house of cats and cashmere
pickled by moths
the little I see—
I can count the walls
and know I exist
but the sun never
asks about itself it is not a god
who depends on its people
not all seeing
objects are created equal
every day my skin
sees more than I do even muffled
in clothes its cameras see eye to eye
with the cat’s toes
my wet flesh envelope
posts itself on dog walks and sky chases
in city parks
I can’t vouch for you
my deep wide body you know more
than I do
What are you cooking in there
what conversation are you having
with the sun?
I tell your knuckles
to unbunch yet there you go
spending your skin on everyone
Mary Buchinger is the author of five collections of poetry, including / klaʊdz / (Lily Poetry Review Books, 2021), e i n f ü h l u n g/in feeling (Main Street Rag, 2018), Aerialist (Gold Wake, 2015), and Navigating the Reach (Salmon Poetry, forthcoming). Her work has appeared in AGNI, Boston Globe, DIAGRAM, Gargoyle, Massachusetts Review, PANK, phoebe, Plume, Salamander, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, and elsewhere. She is president of the New England Poetry Club and professor of English and communication studies at MCPHS University in Boston. Website: www.marybuchinger.com.
