One Zennish Adonic, Skin of a Bubble

M.B. Powell

Back when I was a poet, moonlight could wake me,
blasting through its borehole in the firmament.
I was so fragile then, a breeze could break me.

I’m blast-proof now.  Rays can’t penetrate me.
I sleep like a stone, blind to all signs of impermanence,
though back when I was a poet, moonlight could wake me.

Driving through the dark rain, headlights strafing me,
I was shell-shocked by traffic lights, volatile ornaments.
I was so fragile then, a breeze could break me.

Life’s safer on autopilot.  Nothing shakes me:
not midnight, not lightning, no transit through turbulence.
Yet back when I was a poet, moonlight could wake me,

and one Zennish Adonic, skin of a bubble, could make me
perseverate for days on the earth’s impermanence.
I was so fragile then, a breeze could break me.

Now I get and spend.  Words don’t agitate me.
My skin is a hide, all my senses impervious,
though back when I was a poet, moonlight could wake me:
I was so weightless then, a breeze could take me.

M.B. Powell’s poems have appeared in America Magazine, Atlanta Review, Dogwood, J Journal, The Raintown Review, Rock & Sling, and elsewhere. Awards for individual poems include Atlanta Review’s Poetry 2006 International Poetry Competition Grand Prize, the 2008 Princemere Poetry Prize, and America Magazine’s 2010 Foley Poetry Award, Runner-Up. Her chapbook Lovers, Mothers, Killers, Others was published in 2013.