Introduction

Hello. I'm Mira. I'll be posting my poems here as they unfurl from my hands and brain and innards. At this point, I don't think you need to know too much about me with the exception of what I reveal here in small doses. I feel like I have to sneak around a lot online. I don't like people looking over my shoulder when I write or when I am innocently checking e-mail. So yes, this whole blog very is a clandestine thing. No one who knows me knows that I am here, so if I choose to be controversial and/or revealing, no one is the wiser, that is, until they Google me and find this. Or not? What is truth, anyway? Here is one to leave you with.

Things left around an old house

A glass half filled with water
in the living room
another two rooms away
empty
scatterings of clothes on sofas
Me, with not enough time to do
anything but press my aching spine
into the back of an old office chair
and fantasize of being fucked
out the doldrums of lower class white poverty

The stench of your words in the air
the breath of your shoes left by doors
airing out their foul commentary

Every sight in here makes me sick
makes me want to put on comfortable shoes
and run