Lunch, then open houses.
Ruth—a family name. Truth—not.
The 3.0 that we were. Went looking.
In the forsales—mostly cubed, with lids.
Father number two did research, his thumbs
ink-stained, licked.
I think we all enjoyed. The clean windows.
Shiny knobs. Bathrooms w/o brushes.
Garages without car.
The promise of built-in shelves.
Of insert family “here.” Where the highest
number of stairs, was,
we wanted hard, historic woods.
Put an elephant in those closets.
Swap cards. Loddy-dah. Our tradition.
Orange questions I have/ They crunch
so loud I can’t hear beyond / the crisp mouthfuls
How at twenty four weeks/ the fetus / with inner ear grown full
hears only the mother’s heart: /Life in a single sound/ Tapping
Yes, I remember this/ The day the sound/ breaks open
And light pours in/ Comes back to me now
(Custom-fitted for blogger. Off blogger, imagine
spaces where there are dashes)
I dream whales each night, wake at the sound
of my voice calling out in sonar
Also, orgasms at the sight of doves
The touch of wind spawns spontaneous waltzing
I rocket to the rafters at the thought of mud
An ant and I mind-fly over cocoa islands
Pirate-dressed, I shop for candy at funerals
A tongue of rice brings back the first breast
The smell of glass water I am wet for
A breeze comes my last hawk life, where again
I am circling, circling smells
I will dive down for, and eat
The woman who is dying does not reach for the organic yogurt. She is dying. The trace blood in Yoplaits keylime wont hurt much. The woman who is dying who reaches for the bread, on the shelf, isnt in a store hurry. She is dying. She loses time reaching for the seven grain slowly.
The woman who is dying is tying up ends—a multitasker! Some days she is ready already, her prize in the sky—or some place that smells sky. The woman who is dying —who is she, when alone in a night room, does she really exist? Who, never you does she long for?
The woman who is dying youll wonder you dreamed— the leaves turned up where she passed. Was that her shadow that snagged the old stone?
She who is dying sprouts wing buds. She leans in. You are always the other side of the world.
- Blue exists beyond the trees--called sky, we grow up towards
- Feathereds who fly, fly in flocks
- As the mountain nears it grows larger
- The loving stone has secrets
- Beings disappear and reappear and disappear
- Leaves dry when they die
- We can always know day by its brightness
- Trees touch each other in the open
- Colors are everywhere
- Hunger returns
- To stay we must eat & drink
- If we jump we fall back to earth
- World is also behind us, even if we don’t turn to see it
- Shade is sun’s child
- We will sleep again
- A force here moves our hair
