my weary soul's
been swallowin' grey-faced spirits whole.
But the porcelain broke
between the lips
I feel dusky fingertips.
I have short moments,
one brief farewell
before I place my sins in hell.
lend me your ear,
I've become what I most fear.
I know there's no
such thing as ghosts
but I have seen the demon host.
Can we speak of these certain vacant spaces
in my abandoned bedroom where the moon dwells
and shuttered creatures search their teeth
for a bloom of flavor and sun.
I'm surrounded by prosaic twilights--tenantless places--
where plaster perfumed by dormant fire
gapes with cavities and empty mouths
that seek him with their tongues.
Where darkness crawls on poppy seeds
on moths and reeds and shoes
to reach me in my consternation
now that his name has fled my lungs.
Today I sewed his note to my breast pocket
but it grew crescent roots like fingernails
and murmured that we were too young.
Homage to my dear Neruda and Number Six the sun to my moon.
May you be the last.
I am stranger to the taste
of candor, honor, or courage
a bland and simple fruit.
Exceptional at nothing,
I am exceptionally nothing--
withered from the stem,
the whole way through.
However I have seen
the pallor in your cheek:
a tempting succulence.
Salvation rests beneath
your ripened skin.
I will break the unmarked flesh
I will learn
once I have had
the whole of you.
well I thought of you in summer
but you did not suit the season--
a pale and solemn human,
your fingers stark and slim.
what was it like to shelter,
in the ring of salt and stone?
you thought that demons could not watch you,
when they've always found their home.
I saw you climb inside your skin, thinking
you'd be safer from within
but his fingertips
and he was the end of you.
A more candid letter to myself.
(For those of you who don't know but would like to, "bon hiver" means, "good winter" in French.)
I admit I am a dark, exhausted beast--
a memory no one summons.
But you rise at dawn with raven hair--
a child of soldier and sun.
Although you've gone,
I covet your crescent grin.
and the sun
within the lining
of your skin.
This was too honest for me to finish right now.
Homage to Pablo Neruda and someone essential.
little fawn with two bowed knee
do not allow
the boy with crooked mouth
so near your porous flesh
little girl with freckled limb
there are too few fibers
on his winter pelt
to shield your ivory skin
let him flush the marrow through
till he has ate
the whole of you
your flesh is clear
but he does not hate you less
although you've disappeared
This is not for Number 3, this one's for younger me.
i dreamt of you
you warmed me in
your callused hands
and sighed as if
i were a hummingbird
out your gran'pa's cabin
lovely an' quick
but i wailed until
my throat was grit
your eyes had turnt'
and the hummingbirds
to be warmed by
more faithful things
than the rasp of your callused flesh
This is for Calliope Hummingbirds and Number 3.