a flowerless meadow,
there in the roots of the tall grasses
that bend and sway with the
i keep my beautiful, flawed skin.
A whole week passes on good faith.
There are still houses with red doors when it is over.
A description of silence.
A thing that has not yet happened.
I am given the authority as the survivor
of a speechless family.
Tribes exist within, I’m told. Bodies or lines or
any boundary that serves.
But my sky is a clean one.
And there are red doors, bright with rain.
And there is wind and food, places to get to.
And this fits perfectly
the shape of the earth.
I am named after a house.
And I am no less deserving.
And here. Here is silence:
The icy streets licked in salt.
A black that never dries, even in full sun.
Snow out the kitchen window,
dusk blue as an attic room.
A kissing that envelops.
Thirty seconds of breathless home.
Softer than god. Exactly as infinite.
A gentle triumph of my own crippled mercy.
Nerves and blood and all my heart’s body.
Everything filled in.
Not a single blankness remaining.
FIVE O CLOCK IS A BIRTH CANAL SUITABLE TO DIE INSIDE OF
The church on the hill grew arms
to harvest an outstretched garden
and organs like flowers. How quaint
the reptilian theater, still sort of free
for johns seeking empty skirts.
Apparently the tomb keeps spinning,
the tour bus never stops and here I am
without my lucky murderin’ gloves.
Digress for love, watch it die
in the arch undertow of a bed
like sea on a suddenly flat Earth.
Here lies a poem detailing the fortuitous
acquisition of a dead woman’s computer.
Here lies a poem about bathrooms
that clean themselves, about how
cheese toast sticks throughout the day,
about the shortage of flying cars, how
reincarnation feels like a hangover,
how romantic it can seem to face a wall,
about cascading fire caught up in a wind
whose every lick breaks into a thousand
species of meatless bone.
Here lies a poem about the breath
freshening qualities of moss.
Somewhere five o clock comes
crashing into awareness like a birth
canal suitable to die inside of.
Somewhere dawning skies crack open
and a humongous sleep approaches.
Harvesting the scarred thorns
of worry, they still smolder
in the boney heat of my hand,
they raked deeply across
my long face, across my fat
cheeks and hollow brow
before touching down on lips
to sing deeply of a taste
I will not soon forget,
these insipid thoughts that
perspired from the numerous
neglected tasks I wiped
from my brow today, as they
all cascaded down on me
in splendid unison,
falling, bridging, packing
the height of my worry,
made visible on the bloody
facial ridges and working welts
scored against my aging skin.
Work I will until my dying days
with no refuge in sight, that is what
I see, that is what strikes this callous
fear in me, no rest, no respite
until the last frame,
and the casket
is finally closed.
The morning is always long;
mother’s hair, as she draws
redemption out of chalk.
It’s not so much that I was afraid
of losing you, as it was that
I was afraid of losing my moles.
You—you were always blue,
lovely in your propensity to love
grey things, a black cat, so long
as morning drew
near to the words that mother
stitched into your shoulder
when the sun wasn’t looking.
I always know when you’re coming home again
The days stay warm, the sky stays blue
all my sunny daydreams turn ‘round you
We turned around the Green Grove carousel
when we were too young to know
what love takes away —
On his lips I laid mine
and kept the cold that came to my heart —
I give you my mind, have it
She strikes spent matches on concrete
And cracks urns for ashes
She sketches the suffering eyes of shylocks and saints
upon graffiti smeared streets
Her fingers stain with dust from her dead lover’s coal
The matchstick strikes
brightest in the dark of night.
It’s just that some nights
are darker than others.
Did no one tell you that
love is a palindrome?
it should read the same both ways
& if his mouth is lessened by the full nuance
of your name; you must find another tongue
to treasure the whole language that
You are written in.