Train

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.

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

howling.

It sounds.

He's just realized he's lost something

precious:

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.

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.

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

bounding

in and out,

bags

of corn

are

being

cut 

open

by ourselves.

We don't aim

to kill them,

but the

others

do.

Every

morning

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.

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

away. 

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.

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.

Science gets into the body.

Science gets into the body.

Davinci drew from death.Though his drawings

were beautiful, they were not always anatomically

accurate:

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.