your
disappointments in the whistle
between the gap
of your
yellow
teeth
All in Poetry
your
disappointments in the whistle
between the gap
of your
yellow
teeth
Poetesses write & dream:
puncture, skin, ruby,
Moringa plant, wood,
gone. Their friend’s
piano; the pages
for a friend
These days, I have to peep on humanity
if I want in, like doing my best impression
of the conference table at the secret
corporate powwow to reintroduce
lead and Xanax into the public water
supply.
A body needs
to be fed: bread,
water, skin upon skin,
nails trailing hair line
from breastbone to belly.
You are leaving then -
never the 'Salvatore Mundi',
more a sgraffito grey,
not sumptuary black;
offertory gondola on oil canvas -
in sympathetic cassetta patina.
Suddenly, a silence enveloped us
Something fell, and something began
A light was extinguished, a sob was repressed, and a coin was lost
But at least your fountain came to life again
By noon I want a healing bath
haunted by angels, a place to baptize
broken wings, untwist rivers
mapping hand and legs.
Through the mornings when the sun brightened your house with moments full of my youthful laughs
Perhaps in the evenings between the passing of the cars and the long walks of our synchronized slow steps
Maybe when I open the window, I’ll hear the comforting echo of your voice
When the darkness envelops me
The fear of loneliness invades me
Yet, you shine your presence silently in a billion ways
Your eyes are the night sky I always seek out – but they consume me like black holes without restrain, trepidation or warning.
Bits and pieces cracked off my body
A carefully crafted structure, falling apart in front of their eyes
But how would they ever know?
It was the end, but it was also far from it
A crow drops silver rings in birch’s hollow
where bark peels off like parchment.
I use the bark for spells lately
Still I didn’t sense anything,
feel alert then alarm
like when I dream of snakes,
find an owl on the window sill,
see rat droppings under the sink.
When all the men died
I asked for more.
More men until I’m happy
again. I myself am half-hell
and half-morning.
A fat catfish glides through the living room like a dirigible
past the cracked mantel where photographs were once displayed.
Curtains wave with the current through broken window glass.
You’ll never swim in the ocean
again, Harbor Master, Shark Shooter,
Heir of Polyamorous Meats. I’ll get back
to you in partial remains, partially
Even the universe lets me down. I’m drunk, awake.
Is this how to feel? Next morning’s sunk in my rib cage.
There’s something romantic about a building condemned.
All that space. All the never-smashed ribs in my rib cage.
I’m afraid that if I don’t hang on every word he says
nod approvingly at all the right moments in his ramblings about cars and work
and the driving conditions to and from work
that he’ll decide I’m also not very interesting
wonder why he’s sitting next to me at all.
There, the good girls sew poodle skirts
and pad their bras. The boys balance
on the cusp of manhood, not sure
if they wish to fight or to evade the draft.
The red distance
of radio towers above us.
My days a rat king.
The ocean without sleep.