I donít know if this is the right place
To approach this. The light of the library
Aisle will not light until after I enter.
I am designed to endure ultra-dazzle or ultra-dark.
I am at the outset of my life,
I am a woman who desires aliens. Even
Though unable to identify the hand
Out of the over or under-bright
I want to
Believe the touchís un-believability is accounted for
By systems
Of belief.
Honestly, Alien, I offer myself in good faith. Who
Am I to quote any other author on earth? I love you &
Already all my words are re-corded,
Strings bent and blown mid-note.  I do
Not fuck off to any failure of vision, I & you
Are experiencing the same song in this
Open stack. I swear.
About the dark: my posture
Is only the uniform of the institution
And if this ink makes the paper
Worth less, then my position in the light
Implies all I have is my shadow and my other shadow.
But Iím here.
I mean, I desire the imprint of your eyes in the ink dark
Where I am alien to myself
Where I now sense there is only one kind of currency.
I used to need another who would know
My name in heaven.
Alien, now I do not even know
What my name was yesterday
In the over-comforted bed clothes, quilted down pink
Upon pink, every organ
Of transmission in silent concert with
My mimetic self---
How can this now be recalled, my name did not wear make-up at all---
Anyone had made a decision
About satin and a mirror which forced reflection on Badiou:
Love is not a contract
Between two narcissists
I could recall because I was alone
And could not see myself or any ripple,
Refurbished ripple, of myself. A sleep
Chamber produces a couple squared, squared
Kinds of experiences, experimental sentiments.
Lace edge, dying strain, French scene.
As a child I entered the hot space under the sheets
And called it Ocean and endured it until I couldnít,
Until I couldnít feel enough
Oxygen. Untrue to say we only perceive the air
If we witness the air act upon an object. I sense
Your name, Alien, although I do not know it and
Also, no here and also no heaven. Only this layer, and
Enough, and another


Candice Wuehle is the author of curse words: a guide in 19 steps for aspiring transmographs (Dancing Girl Press, 2014) and EARTH*AIR*FIRE*WATER*∆THER (Grey Books Press, forthcoming) as well as a recent Pushcart Prize nominee. Some of her poems can be or will be found in The Volta, The Colorado Review, and PRELUDE. She lives, reviews, studies and edits for Beecherís Magazine in Lawrence, Kansas.