In a place
that I am beyond

Floating
Looking down on a life that was
that is no more

Running in my mind
Impatient
Fingers drumming in my consciousness
a marching song

Building up the courage
to do what must be done

My brain is on, the motor runs
But thoughts are turned to silly puns
I grasp at words as from me flee
malicious darts of untamed glee.

Here lie the sweet, arrested buds
scorched by a sudden frost.
Withered now those unborn blooms,
sweet scent forever lost.
Reposing here, such shrunken bones
descendents will forget
lie undisturbed in silent tombs,
promise untested yet.
Here we find unyielding knots,
perpetual sand-swell dunes,
thorns that pierce the unaware,
scars thickened over wounds.
Should they reside in endless peace,
not see the light of day?
These dusty relics locked within;
the things we didn’t say.

I know this hurt,
I’ve been hurt before.
My eyes are still stinging;
My body is sore.

I know this hurt,
My stomach in knots.
My whole body’s shaking,
Alone with my thoughts.

I know this hurt,
I know I’m not fine.
But something feels wrong.
What’s different this time?

I think I love you most in Spring
When leaves grow bold and strong
Flowers budding on each branch.
Tree roots spiral and twist into the damp dirt
Earthworms slithering from sewers
Slithering
Warm wind sifting through blades of grass
Misted with dew drops.
I take my shoes off and smell the thick air
Nature tickling my feet.
Roses kissing my cheeks
The tip of my nose
Warm rain sprinkling the fur of the deer
Dashing through the streets.

I think I love you most in Fall
When leaves crinkle and flutter in the sky
Leaving splashes of color on sidewalks
And on the top of cars,
In puddles splashed by tiny feet.
Pumpkins making faces
Rolling down driveways
Rolling
Blades of grass chilled by the cool wind.
I take my shoes off and smell the misty air
Nature tickling my feet.
Roses kissing my cheeks
The tips of my ears

I think I love you most in Winter
When leaves are all but swept away
Tree branches barren and lonely
Frostbite nipping the dead grass
Snowflakes making patterns in the white sky
Dusting each bony twig and pavement
Icicles hanging from the windows
Dripping downwards
Dripping
Firewood crackling.
I take my shoes off and smell the crisp air
Nature tickling my feet.

I think I love you most in Summer
When leaves are solitary greens
Sizzling wind blowing
Ocean waves crashing on the horizon
Where the orange sun meets the sky
Bicycles littering parks and towns
Outside of shop stores
Rusty hose water spilling into streets
Spilling
Roses kissing my cheeks

I think I love you

Slithering
Rolling
Dripping
Spilling

I think I love you

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.