floating and leaving no trace
looking in your eyes i can measure
how much distance has grown between us
you took such care in planting the seeds
you split my bones with all your regrets
wiped me from your shoe like something foul
driven mad like apocalypse steeds
and now–i’m dust, some blood, little else
mere memory of a summer breeze
shadow moon your tide no longer heeds
——
I want to do a reading of one of my latest poems.
But I don’t want to choose.
Will no one rid me of this indecision? (That is your cue to leave a comment and tell me which poem I should do a reading for.)
i want to turn
my hands to stone
let them harden
the way my heart
slowly becomes
a smooth orb
of cold marble
there is a world of mirrors
that needs smashing
and my hands
won’t cease
won’t heal
won’t quit bleeding
the moon can but watch
these winds raw my sky
shadow-drunk and frantic
my bitter skin screams
language is a diamond
crushed to rust
like milk
shot through with summerless blood
whispering is wax music
shuddering sun
or is it
the world moving
breaking
beneath our feet
i reach for your hand
count the rings
of your fingerprints
brushing against my own
there is no darkness
only birth
there is no light
only the song
of your breathing
the eucalyptus has shed
its bark
now a smooth white
shushing like sandpaper
under my palm
it stretches fifty feet or more
and twists as it grows
a split the width of my finger
the length of my forearm
rises up the trunk
how simple it seems
to grow this way
add a ring
lose some skin
start over each year
praying for rain
and easy winds
warm belly,
remember this ferocious desire
for you are a prisoner of
women wet with throbbing
sadness
sacred sex, porcelain hearts, salted smiles
——
the bones hang slack
and the blood cools swift
we shamble forward
toward the rift
no light within
no light without
we trip and fall
swallowed up by doubt
our descent will take
a thousand years
our only company
will be our fears
the beating of dark wings
in complete darkness
and the downy touch of
feathers brushing your cheek
this is no dream, this
eternal blackness
no manifestation of
of unfulfilled desires
or torturous regrets
these are the angels
with knives for voices
they want to sing to you
these are the angels
with razors for hands
longing to caress you
these are the angels
with fire for tongues
and how they want to kiss you
the lady curves her back
hair wet
resting one hand against a rock
as if to hold herself upright
as if unused to gravity
and her legs
fold gently beneath her
glimmering
in moonlight
as if scales covered her thighs
as if the song she hums
can be refused
Words and Feathers 