it doesn't matter/i couldn't care

by Amy Soricelli

if i could wear my name like black cloth across your back i would stamp down hard the misery in each
letter - the solid pull of the earths force on all that shines;
all that dusky misery will do to you.
it is not enough to pound up the stairs in deep sighs - you can't always see the air as it hisses out of your mouth.
nails and splinters winter and bone.
i am the glass shield to no sadness you can name.  if you called me hollow down the street i would come like a dog
stand by the side of the building snickering sideways in tar.
you can't capture the bee stings in a box tight with edges sharp like elbows -
see me in long last glimpses behind you like a train passing.
sweep me under the rug a loose pile of soundless empty i don't care.