I thought I would get the flowers myself

I read Mrs. Dalloway with my lily of the valley headphones in,

Harmonies in my ears as Peter Walsh listens to the rusty pump in Regent’s Park,

As does Rezia and presumably the gray nanny.

Clarissa thinks in my mind,

Our words I’ve never had the words for —

I contemplate engraving her thoughts on my skin.

I realize this book could never be written now,

At least not by me.

I do not leave space to think as she does,

Clarissa, Virginia,

My mother still with a slide phone;

I put in my headphones and am never without sound

And do not struggle to misunderstand life in my walking silences.

I am always at the top of the stairs,

Looking down at my invited and undeniable party.