Saturday, December 21, 2013

My 8 year-old self holds a heart

After scrubbing elbows to nails, Mom gowned
and gloved me. Through swinging doors I saw
every body but his, cloaked in blue. On his back: eyes taped 
shut, penis halo'd in dark hair, the smell of sterility
and iodine, his ribs pried open and inside him-- a hollow
large enough for several sparrows. Just tall enough to see
and reach up, then over, then down into the hollow
with my right hand, his heart slick and pink as the inside
of a swollen cunt. Was his spirit hovering as this child
reached inside him, cupped his heart in her palm to the sound
of Led Zepplin on the radio? Did he wonder, who was this girl-
child hovering, reaching inside him--doing as she was told. 

Thursday, December 19, 2013

yes, I love her

There is a pit inside of her:
deeper than she is

able to. Go. I followed her
half-way down, once. She barely

made it. Out. She can not bear
to hear some of the words. I write

and it would be easier to swallow
were she not in my throat, as I wrote,

but the psychic cord was never cut,
though attempted. Her hair was once

long and black reflecting. She
is still innocent and I can't

forget her hands. It is as if she
has died and come back

to life. It is as if I carry
her on my back everywhere.

I go. I could write her
forever. She is my

oldest lover.

From a crow's view

my childhood, blended, would be
the color worn by monks--  color
of ash,
color of wolf,
carved stone,
storm cloud,
color of hair,
dead brain,
aura   of the depressed  

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Fear 111: my face on a milk carton

A latch key kid I'd head straight for the blinking machine: red:
push play : I'm going to kidnap Sarah became not unusual.  
When my parents got home, my adopted dad would prepare
the gun, teachers were phoned with the secret word--
strawberry, for anyone picking me up from school.
(I can tell you that now.)

At night I'd lock the front door eleven times-- up 
and out of bed: that journey of heart pound 
down stairs again and again: terror plagued
those years, years after we'd left him, changed my name,
never sit with my back to a window.

Sometimes he'd call when we'd be home. 
Mom made me talk to him, though I didn't really 
want to, though he terrified me, though I hated him. 
He'd say, Tell your mom  I love her still. Tell her I love her.
Mom would listen as she stirred a hot pot, I'd wrap phone cord
tighter around my finger till the tip turned white.
Your father loves you, she'd say.

There is no data on how many children were saved by milk cartons,
but as a child the fear welled my face would one day
be on one. I hate/d milk; those faces haunted me. The rows
after rows of children stapled
on Walmart walls still get me.

Monday, December 16, 2013

how the girl became a messenger

hands shape the ground beef into a question-mark patty,
she feeds it to the girl who once grew inside her

girl eats patty, asks why do you
call yourself a whale?  mother feels trapped,

should have served girl a traditional
period-patty, tries to put her feelings

into a mental-meat-grinder till the girl's
question comes out in shreds


the girl begins to study whales in effort to understand her mother--
slippery so she tells no one her mother loves water and whale tongues

weigh as much as an elephant, their hearts as much as a car, so, the girl 
infers her mother feels overwhelmed, but is unable to speak 

the weight of it,
the girl runs baths for her mother, lights candles--

she'll feel most at-home here, she thinks, but she'll be lonely--
(blue whales travel in pairs,) so I'll bathe (blue)

with her   so she's not so alone

next, often, they are two whales in a tub  
girl feels questions in her belly, gathers her body

beneath the faucet, imagines a waterfall-ing
into her open palms  this goes on for years

she wrinkles nightly into thumb tips,
remembers the story of Jonah-- 

swallowed by a whale never named,
inside whom he lived for three days

in acidic darkness, before purged
on shore--forgotten, his skin, hair bleached

white from acid  and the smell
had he doubted before

he was a messenger of God,
he never doubted again  

Sunday, December 15, 2013

What she wants (to be continued...)

to be wrapped
in strands of lights-- glow
in the corner of someone's room
to eat batteries and pass
them as a highway from Florida to Nebraska 
delivers a bus full of children
to feel light as a jumping bird
to spin in a field of cotton
without guilt or nausea
to eat it all without being full
to taste like honey suckles smell
to be licked
without disappearing
to know the names of every cloud--
to be one for a day
to pray on her knees
to want
to not eat her chapstick
to have pretty handwriting
to be a monk
to climb Everest
to eat cheese
to swim with seals 
to crack a coconut on her knee
to cum
to peel her lip with her fingers
snow, lots of snow

What roses want

She hides in a garden of angry roses-- red
like the one on her mother's breast

bone, thorns tips like a record's needle, scratching
across skin-- roses want to be remembered

in her dreams, they write-- want to stain 
her permanently

red like love and pain, 
like every month's throwings : petals. She hides

in the garden, a wall surrounds her bones, her nest,
she smells roses with honey-hopes,

forgets not to move  
surrounded in silk and thorn

Catholic School Memory

Hipless and uniformed in plaid 
I hid in the closet with a bully girl
in the hopes shed like me after
we'd undressed, sucked each other's teeth,
shown each other our flat, hairless parts.
Where were the nuns
to finger a cross on my forehead in ash?
We wanted to be glamorous-- rolled
paper into pixi-stick tubes to set on fire, smoked
till our lungs, fingers burned. Her name
was Julia which had to be the prettiest
sounding bully name ever there was. Seems like
she was always wanting
to take me into that closet, I too was wanting
her long brown hair as my own.
I knelt often those years, it felt holy-- even when knees
skinned stuck to the leather kneelers at mass,
the altar boys knocking incense chambers
left to right down the aisle, dressed in white
robes. After school I'd slap-bracelet
my girl-arm, hang upside down
till my head filled with ocean sounds.

Saturday, December 14, 2013

I imagined angels because I was alone for so long

They followed me for over a decade-- with their wild hair,
shiny broken teeth, lopsided wings. When I really
needed them they twittled my hair around their yellowed
finger tips. Sometimes I saw them in my cigarette smoke--
And I'd hear them in my head, sense
them staring down from the ceiling. --They read every
word I wrote. Once, when I needed to be alone, I put a blanket
over my head and wrote Leave me/Leave me 111 times. I burned
the paper over the bath tub, watched it curl like pubic hairs
before vanishing into a pile of ash I rinsed down the drain.
But they didn't go away. They whispered
is she going to eat. They laughed
too, when I 'd walk into a bed post or trip
over a snail. Though menacing, they were always
on my side-- good angels, and like me --outcasts,
who never knew when to go away.  

Friday, December 13, 2013



We dont have time. Dada
will soon tsunami-crash, pull

us under the sea till we float.
He's coming—quick, we

must go. Your swollen face--
a cracked mirror I see myself

broken inside, his steps
pounding—closer, into my dream-earth.

Run!--we belong nowhere.
We don't have time to belong.

Leave the cat beside the couch,
my beloved best friend-- leave him,

fast forward ourselves to a place
I climb the oak daily with each

scratch, I pray higher
and higher.

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Focus on her wild eyes

Navy dress hits my knee,
cherry ringpop, tan 
pantyhose. Bus 189 slows to a stop 
at Kramer and Richmond.
Bye to our driver who looks
like MacGyver. Boys
and I get off and I walk   
home to a bungalow 
with green shutters.

I dont get far-- a blow
from behind sends me  
to ground. The “coolest”
of the bunch sits on top,
5pm sunlight, outside  
the store jolly ranchers cost
three cents. 

You stuff, You stuff he
laughs. The others

For his protection
we'll call him Darrell.
Darrell reaches up navy
dress, gropes new breasts,
grabs handfuls
of leaves, shoves 
into bra. They scratch 
as they break
into pieces.
Dress at waist.

Darrell walks home, hears what
he hears most nights:
plate breaks into shards, father yells/mother
screams/slaps/groans: silence.
Darrell takes apart
his legos, piece
by piece.  Darrell lies
on his back, airplanes 
suspended over his bed.

Fifteen years later. Naked
ribcage, dreams of bloody
bird wings rinsed clean.
Drying off in the dark.

In the blue barn I practice undressing myself.
The mare stares as I pinch a button—recalling,
I imagine my self under warm water, kissing a woman
until I'm airless, until each button—undone.
Focus on the mare's breath hitting the cold. Focus on her wild eyes--
not the Earth-feeling
of nakedness-- the screaming desire to trampoline
out of  body, twist my nipples into stones
to skip across the river.

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Here's a story

of a man whose name
you'll never know, whose path
you'll cross only this once.
The ice has turtlenecked his
shopping cart full of cans,
bags. Beside the stoplight,
on a bench where you see
his breath. He asks for nothing
he's monk-still, encapsulated
in the silence of the icey
scene. If he were inside
a snowglobe, he'd be beautiful
and sad and safe to inspect
closely, carefully.
The light turns
a warm green and you
look away. You
look away.

Saturday, December 7, 2013

Dear fish heartbeat,

Dear fish heartbeat,

I can no longer hear you, though you golden and glimmer, pulse in the low waters of the Kentucky pond, with its frozen lip you have slowed to the turn of a ballerina on her last, toed revolution, have slowed like a forced waltz, a dying hyena beside the river. Dear fish heartbeat I can not feel your beat in my body the way I once could when I passed all the raped-of-tree fields. Dear fish heartbeat, I wail like a pack of wolves whove lost their leader, but, light coming, must go; for they can not carry her in their mouths. Dear fish heartbeat the dog curls warm in my lap; I miss you.  

Friday, December 6, 2013

I wish for a way to say this beautifully.

I was 16.
He was 45.
I was in a chatroom.
So was he.
My mother slept.
He picked me up.
He gave me a drink, started to kiss me.
Please take me home now.
I'll take you home after you do what you came here to do.
It's a school night. My mother might wake up. Please.
I'm not taking you home yet. I promise to take you home after we have sex.
I don't want to. I want to go home.
Not until we have sex.
He came fast. He refused to take me home until the next morning.
I had just enough time to get ready for school.
My mother never noticed I was gone.
I told noone because I had a serious boyfriend.
I didnt know his name.
I didn't know I'd been raped.
I wish for a way to say this beautifully.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Why I dream Olivia Benson

I sold knives in stranger's homes, diced
carrots on tables. I believed
in their steel-- knew how sharp they were.

The detective told me my rapist's last name
was Justice. The kit wouldn't be back for
at least a year. I didn't have HIV.  

Two days after it happened the hospital called.
My Potassium level was heart-threatened-
low from all the fingers down my throat. A butterfly
needle into my vein, I watched the IV bag empty
itself into me.

The day after it happened they said, pluck
50 pubic hairs. Either you can do it or we can. Gloved doctor
said no bruises, no torn flesh. He hmphed and left,
my shame-- raw,
warm yolk, cracked
over my body.  

19 and you know the story: short skirt it's true
it's trite my cheeks rouged from drink
that night. The house-- a strangers I can't see clearly.
When I woke he was inside me, mermaids
swimming in my mouth.

A cloud of cold deja vu leaves itself
in my eyes, layers over layers--
grape rhymes with drape rhymes
with freight but I must tell it, must tell
the not again of it--why
I don't buy those beautiful
brown pears anymore.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013



Perhaps it was just the lighting
it seemed I crumbled-- right there,
in the light stain in the corner,
light all over me, light over my whitened
skin but now I am unable
to linger.    Must go.

Ever since The Crumbling,
the constant electric inside
makes me
to kick : it is the medicine
and yet it still is.
I am high voltage
and there are many blinks.
You probably dont get it,
but anyways,


the boredom kills me.

For example it's a day my tights are warm
and striped and blah blah  
anyway. The day drips
slowly-- drop; drop
in the sink of the day.
How slow the day
is, how bored
the cows--

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

I know the icicle dreams, Earth

I know the icicle dreams, Earth  

The trees' leaves are tongues of labradors--
flicking in the wind, little tongues with nothing
to say. They are listening tongues.

How many of us are there, pray-dreaming like this?

I know the icicle dreams:
I know grandeur and wishes, in every,

 dripping drop.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

To Metaphorically and Literally Drive like a Trucker *

 To Metaphorically and Literally Drive like a Trucker *

drives, always
the sunrise, always
the sunset : different scapes
without a hat on, mountains
with different names. Drive like a trucker
drives, naps in the birds eyes--
snake of the wreck pile-up.
Drive at night when meteors,
drive so you burn, so, at times,
speed outside/still inside.
The road is your frame, when
the music's not playing
you live in the whooshing.

At the stop, you go
to their offering of numbers.
They give you an 1188
you wait to hear
called so you may
become clean : you wait : you
look at magnets : you put
a quarter in the stuffed animal
machine that gleams fluorescence--
the clawed spectacle drawing you in,
the light on your face as you
get closer to the bear you
will try for, drawing you in
as the fields draw you, in
whose arms you so want to be
taken, you are so often
moving like wind.

When they call 1188
you're alive and loosened over time
as you peel the clothes
from your body : your skin,
you realize is precious and scarred
and the hair on your shin reminds
you of your immortality.
You are naked somewhere in the middle
of Nebraska. A spider on the ceiling
is watching the hot water hit
your back and it's almost more
than you can bear.

*with gratitude

Sunday, October 20, 2013


I was freed and reunited with my mother-- who,
like a stroke victim, did not grasp the immensity
of what i'd been through. No more chamomile
feelings, or else it was chamomile all the time.
No in between. No mother slipping away slowly.

I'd had my head out the window of a train
passing through a tunnel. Nearly decapitated.
I should never have had my own head
out the window, but I have this thing with wind
and locomotion. This app on my phone reminds
me to stick my head out the window every time
it's 11:11.

Every now and then I have to move. The pain
is a ball that rolls towards me, forever. Deer sit
in the periphery like unmoved chess pieces
not covered in dust, but slick as seals.

My ballerina self has light on her face which is
looking up to the moon. She is transparent, lace
in her lungs-- something fibrous: an illness which
looks like snowflakes covering the seen
of a wreck.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

It is hurting to hear the dog cry--

his howl
echoes. (His heart is sick with something
like blue fingers
warm and bruised.)

The dog howls like he's never feared.
Ache. He howls like the bright,
blank page exists an hour later.
The dog is still

It sounds.
He's just realized he's lost something

a part
of himself


it's still hurting,
the dog howls.

what if you go find the dog,
he comes to you--
you feel the sadness in his head.
and his sadness then kisses you.

Thursday, October 3, 2013

A more beautiful blue

In the morning I will try
to describe a color to you
you've never seen before.
It is like
a more beautiful blue.

By the way, I can look at any color
and be okay. I can hold orange
within my iris, take it with me
to a place it don't mean a thing,
anymore. Orange don't mean a thing.

At night the colors stay outside where
they're supposed to, mostly.
I sleep with the windows open.

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Meanwhile, the tower is famous because it leans,

deer bound in and out-- tails
flick ing white
in the-furthest-from-surrender kind of way.
Deer medicine surrounds : muggy :
quick in/quick out, daily
leaves crystalize. Some fall.
All summer the summer
was soaked, wore its hair plastered to its face--
so soaked roses, cukes drunk
on all the water, yellowed and endless
the months

the deer are still

in and out,
of corn
by ourselves.
We don't aim
to kill them,
but the

I watch the morning:
540 rise, stars lift,
sky—some beautiful
being, worth the linger
of our eyes.

The summer was soaked,
garden was soaked fruits,
which I ate, sometimes
on my knees, sometimes
cross-legg-ed, ankles
pressed in

to the earth.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Being buried to the chin in a pile of warm dryer clothes feels like:

the Earth is healed, the streets smell sparkly
and lack cement. She is able to be in her body--
each muscle, unlocked is weeping into
the finish line. The finish line is a light
beam. The quiet

is safety roaring's arms in which
she is.
Her muscles no longer
weep. They wept until 
they dropped

She is all that is left. 
She can look at any color and be okay. 
The stuttering stops-- that word 
in her mouth lets go of her tongue and as it

is spoken, it floats away.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

I want to free all the candles

A sparrow with a broke wing
outside the door versus walking beneath a
row of trees filled with flittering sparrows.

Both were part of that day the hay stacks
were draped in blue blankets in the fields,
they asked can the cows keep up, can we
milk them smarter, turn their shit
into electricity if the milk doesnt obey?

It was that day-- day I fed the dog
her vitamin, carried a full bucket
of yellow corn to the deer house, watched
for the wave
of its flicking, white tail.
It was the weekend I came
home with blisters
in my mouth, chigger bites
on my breasts, laid hawk feather
on the dash of my car. I found
a rusted apple beneath the seat.

It was the week I pulled the nails out
of the blue carpet that you never said,
If you make it to the end with scars-- a toe
missing, you've lived well.
You said instead I'd need to replace
your mother's candle-- the one
that melted that summer
onto the table outside, the white
one youd kept on the mantle for looks.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Science gets into the body.

Science gets into the body.

Davinci drew from death.Though his drawings
were beautiful, they were not always anatomically

he always drew a hole near the heart where
the soul could escape.

These are the limbs.
How wonderful our brain is.
Some lift it out of the body,
cut into the skin and have a look:

Some hover over shoulders of cadavers.
There is a lot of light, an antiseptic smell.

We ask them: take us to the body:

Mostly skin,
with flaps, parts of the body lift out.
There is a bin marked hands and arms. You open it,
and the hands and shoulders
are soaking in preserving fluid.
You reach in and grab whichever
you like.

There are heads cut in half, --half-faces on a table look
just like meat. After you warm up, they are just heads on a table.
They are assymetrically cut to keep the teeth and jaw bone.
The dental schools usually get the heads.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

 yes, blue please

 Oh that blue I am all of it, feverish, they are talking about eating a tongue/ they are saying it is rude to eat a tongue

In the corner is a smooth blue creature I want to touch,certainly.

now they are recalling how they once covered their elbows because it was civil

I am feverish, the sound of the word blue
I'm listening

how much is improvised versus composed

A creatures smooth blue hands, my blue veins--

the see-throughable-ness of my thigh in the light

I hear a blue sax in the background
it happened in the middle of a hiphop song

Now they are talking about beautfiul blue brains/ the old oak is the beautiful thing 

its rough skin on my face, a textured blue

It all lasts forty minutes: this blue
conversation. A man on the radio is grateful for all of it--

her fingers along the wettened blue clay.
something magical  

She is feverish, blue-spined
dare I say ascending
to holy, blue, sainted

There is a smooth
blue creature in the corner
she wants to touch
its bald, blue head

Friday, August 23, 2013

He didnt rape me

This is not that poem.
I remember the room where he saw my head
at the end of the barrel. This is how it feels
to be seemingly powerless, to know life is in the hands
of a man's finger on a trigger and
crazy thoughts inside him walking a tightrope.

Haha I said so he'd have a way out,
if he wanted. (I was
walking through a blackwashed
room. Sensing. No one
could see my eyes
were peeled open moons. They couldnt have
been more open.)

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Like a doctor without gloves

I want to touch
the inside of a pumpkin with my eyes closed. Let there be thunderstorms.
Let the operation be outdoors all day and let it be
consentual, or else there is no hand.

I know there is no other way
to become again clean. As in viscera clean.
As in I am dirty through and through.

It is holy to want to
clean one's self this way. It is holy to want
to enter a thing and leave, covered

in what it knows.

Monday, August 19, 2013

2 yolks.

The hummingbird purrs concurrently, flies
to my eye-level and stares. 5-6 seconds. Pleased to make
your acquaintance, Ms. Hummingpsychic.

Last night I dreamt my lover's reason-to-stay-awake memory. It somehow soaked
through like blood : the fear-humidity in which it is difficult to breathe.

I once knew how to say hello to a stranger in a language I'd never heard.
I didnt know the stranger spoke this language.

As a child I held an egg and asked is it possible
to have 2 yolks inside? I cracked the egg
and saw

Ever since I saw a tree it's been this way--

Sads in my Happy. Spread through
like smoke through a vent
beneath a bed in which
a child is sleeping
at night. I can feel them
in my eyes. --A thickness, a paint mixed in
with the wets that gloss my iris
when I smile:

Dont be sad she said be happy

I am I said, I was trying to smile from my liver

I was smiling : feeling
the Sads in my true Happy, eyes and crinkled


Wednesday, August 14, 2013

This Vaginal Day

To the cab driver who said he’d buy me a car
if I’d have sex with him:

Exactly how many times humming 
with your dick in my mouth

does it take to buy me a hybrid/ Can 5 
missionaries be traded

for 1 ass fucking/ What is the going rate exactly
for a ride I am not propositioned

Later on the subway 2 girls 
in thighhigh skirts/ A man touches 

them in ways 3 times their age/ Pinches the youngest 
who smiles/ Says stop/ 

50 tongueless watch

Just before the butterfly flew into the woman's head & scared her

the dog is filling his time with God it is how
it wants to live the dog is howling in the field:

heard, recorded and understood for its pain by
the woman on whose feet is cut-grass, inside

the woman is herself howling  

Glossary of My Mind

Every number has a meaning. I am an eleven ( 9 +1+9+1+9+8+1) I have devised
a language through which Universe speaks to me in numbers,
or did the Universe devise the mathematics? Who/what comes first is
a truthless way to ask. --There are no poles here,
no bipoles, no messages on the radio.

Every color has a meaning-- it is either good or bad or untrustworthy
Imagine a sky of another color-- a green sky, clear weather
is, can you imagine how the grass would feel plating
such a sky green sky? Blue is more
the color my soul always has been.

The way a dog can seem like a deer is the way I can feel like
a tree that knows the hammock beneath it is now my writing place. I am
making myself into a pedestal where things that sparkle
honey or blood may be stacked.

It is time to leave World 1 and 2 behind. World 3 has begun I am equipped
with guards-- in fact 3 armies wont let you through
w/o the encrypted p*ss*o*d after which you think you're in, but it's a phis sad
to keep the real world safe.

I am growing cabbage. I am less afraid.
I am less everything.

It has everything to do with my cycle
and what I dreamed/ran from. I already know
because of what's happened that every thing/body
is a springboard into God the same.
My colors may clash today but that's okay.
I'll keep waving at planes.

What do a double shot glass, a piece of driftwood, a bottle, the stem of a martini glass have in common:

What do a double shot glass, a piece of driftwood, a bottle, the stem
of a martini glass have in common:

the monster left his footprint stamps in the mud
inside me, but if you could somehow
crawl in with the other objects, please, then repeteadly
bash your head on the soft rocks inside me,

that'd be great thanks
of course you may get dizzy of course
you may need more air, but let's pretend
that you aren't/dont need
and somehow the Stegossauraus ache inside me

is alleviated with no aftershock

Friday, August 9, 2013

Self Portrait 2

Her suspicion was all you could dream

Remove items from mind and sink in
to hammock     it is sad/breathes you in
and out of itself like it is alive
in that hurtplace, drink from the
cold glass bottle your heart
is a great engine
pulling you into
dreams of her,
                                      sink in
to that time her beloved strings went missing
you dont play/you loved her/you didn't have keys
but all she could do was fear you,
but still, she was all you could dream for yourself

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Saturday, August 3, 2013

  • did you know I mowed a heart in the grass for you
    incase you flew over in a plane you'd see it
    incase you happened to be looking real close from up high
    loafe with me/rhyme with me I want you
    • to lull, transparent hips and gentle
      part swiftly arose part swiftly a rose
      around me


Thursday, July 25, 2013

Through all the cricket sounds

I loafe in summer grass rooms-- shelves intoxicate me
it is my mouth in love with wood here and naked, nipples whisper silk
silk are loosed to kisses: a reaching of trees-- hills, of me rising
the earth of all poems, millions
of eyes shall look at the beginning
and end of this act--
in the jars on the shelves are bulbs and frog hearts
beating,  my tongue is a worm and thristy
for the dark room where it senses
its way


Last night a woman in my mouth refused me, refused the journey my tongue offered. This was the end of night. This bleeding is the beginning of day, perhaps what brought me to my knees-- little things in the stacks get me. The coward placed 2 circles beneath my tongue-- easier than a hive to dissolve, and my tongue welded them together like it must always be a maker, 2 sweet tarts filled with numbing powder and soft, but soft, went the night so I couldnt feel the ache-- blue ache, then green fading yellow and lighter, lighter till it disappeared. Be the day circles, triangles, deceiptful Softs or an unyielding lover, it begins with my tongue's memory. One never remembers the medium nights. Who wants them, I lie raised on deck, a blue heron in the pond, feet covered in patties of duck weed, a pot of turtles and snakes stew beneath ,  fearless or ignorant is the baby heron? I am sitting on a hive, recalling my fifth step brought me to my hands, write hand impaled by the needle it fell on, recall a stream of blood means relentment.  

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

they will be unable to

in the beginning god
came to you those hours you in threshold stood
in the frame-- snowy
right knuckled, ciggy-
out door, you turned back, kept
with softlight over your shoulder
the memory would be
wholly warm if you could just
your arm

god came then
those threshold hours / months/    years
in the kitchen
or wherever you talked to the frigidaire/ who was god it was kind
of an accident/ it was before you knew you'd have the power
to exonerate them all/   not the sky eyes above the sheets but
the others all the others
who come after, who came before and washed
you through with voices, eyes,
leafs and numbers:
8s, 11s on plates you count them
you ask them     stop breathing
in my ear, please leave my shoulders be

the Voice-Washers will thencome,
to wash, wash, away numbers

you will ask/  are they washing away god?