Could I

carry that

for you?

The softness of it,
     so still in my hand,
     a dead bird.
But I know it must feel

like dark matter in yours;

too heavy

                                                    - just, bright -

to com-

prehend.



.



There's something a bit
dusty about us;
if we dared to be
    cute,
we would be bunnies.

The only thing
rabbit here
is our hab(b)it
of hiding
in broad daylight.

We turn invisible.

       The gods cannot see us.

Otherwise,

you mottle and split
like a cobra,

                 so much

       shed skin
  
                          and foreign,
                          new bodies.



.



I shudder at 'was.'

I have scratched
500 days
in the wall calendar,

and I just say 'was, was, was,'

like it's
the breath
of life,

          (something precious
          to buttery mosaics
          and grieving gods,)

    'I was skinny.
        I was nice.
           I was happy.'

N o w  y o u ' r e  d o i n g  i t  t o o.

Your hands are at your own throat

and you've scraped your skull clean,

      inside                          and out.

       Please put down your knife,

we will not                   eat our hearts
                 
                       tonight.


       I brought home icecream.

                Get your spoon.



.



I think I made this.

   This shadow that chose you,
   following you around,
   speaking in tongues;

  and the guilt
       is so much more
             than bruises and string-chokings,

                   slamming your toe in the door
                             when I was two,

       (snake sp(l)its, in the nail,
       to this very day,)

                 bumping away at night

                          when we were empty-handed

                 and sorrowful,

                           dead morning glories

                  crying at dawn.

         (Ladies whispering:
      "so young, so sad")

Never has there been such a
disjointed thought
as trying to be good,

for caring for your mother and

                   so
      
               slowly
    
         drowning her

                         in our specifics
                              and demands
                                   to inherit
                                         something other than
 

                                                    mista­kes.



.



We are her murders
and her children,

you and I -







brother.

Your kite
is a rainbow.

You
let it kiss the sun -

the glow is unfamiliar,
unlike your face,

even though we have only been
in the den

for five days.
If I could cry, I would.

Our backyard is teeming
with cardinals and spring,

but I can’t think of them.
I only see you.

Your chest
is an Indian beat

belonging to a drummer. I think it's for me.
I count it out. One, two, one, two.

The borders beyond the garden are looming;
they creep and crawl forward

like the disease we fight, pressing in.
Your warmth sinks in me, but I am still cold.

I constantly check foreheads,
pressing lips against suspicious skin,

and for a day or two I forget
that the world goes round

and that we are small, petals of daffodils.
You hold my hand, you rouse me as a child from slumber:

“Open your tongue. Look up.” And I look,
and I see those colors you’re flying;

I see a diamond and a sign
and God’s eye. Goodness now notices

my cough and bleed. My eyes are no longer mute;
my song comes from the windows,

it tumbles down the brick and vines
to meet the waterfall on my cheeks.

Rainbows can be tasted;
they can be felt on the lips much better

than fevers.

.

I fall to the grass and breathe
as a newborn: for the first time.