I became solemn in my own grave
and shallow were those who forgot
and sunken were those who mourned.
I laid facedown and bruised from honest
words that broke my heart and
offered the pieces to each deity
that played with tiny crosses on my skin
like I was the wide Mediterranean unknown
Where is your god when the sea breaks and
bellows in riot?
Where is your salvation when each breath
drowns in protest?
I indulged in your grace and came up empty-
handed and from there the words were all
scattered and helpless on my tongue;
the syntax I could not find to sift me out
of my old bones that shuddered in a nature
as though they might crumble into dust,
and it was your face that I might not see again
that held me tight between a sky bloomed of life
and the inundating tides of
Mister always told me he liked my dress
like it was my sunday best
and I sat before the god of my inane
thirst as he rowed me across the atlantic
in romantic suicide.
I laid with two stakes in my hands for
eight years hung up on the cross of
my Father’s back where he carried me
to the center of my own christening,
and the gathering’s gathered eyes hallowed
“I swear he’s a good man”.
I had to dig a hundred graves to bury
the parts of me that died with you
and your fascist grin,
I had to burn the home that housed
your greasy robes
and from the smoke those memories
rose unforgiving and sordid where it
was my throat that choked instead.
How do you figure what stays
and what goes
in order to live?
It began with a break that wrenched
my heart, a red-bloom sack,
back into my hollowed chest--
a coffin that had been recycled
after a few good deaths.
I regrew two months in an old
cast on a regimen of self-love and
strawberry toast, reminiscing tales
of Venus and Rhiannon, who I
believed once ran ghostly white
through my veins and then exited
as newborn of my guise. O body!
I regret the dust that had settled
in your stomach; the bones that couldn’t
even mold the blood was too dry;
the worth that looked leonine but
was serpent in the placid waters
and bartered with me to cross
where a noose was tied to my
name; the skin that twisted at the sight
of blighted bloated bones the hands
of scandal held tight.
Gone, gone, gone were the days
before calamities rang in my ears
and tamed me submissive to a
garden that refused to flourish but,
rather, grew into itself to protect
feverish in desert-dry tides
the mountain hungers in crescendo
for the sky that crucifies her;
her staccato tops of green
and earthly graves
are titanic gods in all-
these congeries of grandeur
do her not rise but sink the
valley of mawkish men
trembling poignant and bare
sprouting liturgies from their
beaks, bespeaking the apex
pregnant in exploits
where the sun resurrects daily.
dissonant from the ground that ached
fractured and mistress of
she birthed the thin ghost of dawn
drawing the trembling line of
fervent, the bulbous-born sky
in fat drunken clouds of
climaxed in the aqueduct of
and emerged as deity of
bagatelle and dust.
the bones were hard to give up,
they pushed out like daisies
caressed under the hounding
heart of a copper sun.
unbridled and undried they bore
zealous arrogance of themselves,
petals dripping ****** convictions
and vibrating like awful angels.
under cruel devices they tried to
soften my bones and mold thick skull
constructed of lackluster candles
on their last flame.
days passed like doctors and white nurses
examining old wires that pray tell
the routines, the stools, the teeth.
i am their Jesus, their Lazarus.
my hearse, my sheep keeper,
my pretty things,
i become the acrobat at the
finale, the last supper,
supplementing at the **** of my
recovery. i lay my skin down for all
of you to see: here is my breast!
my toad belly! my glass feet!
i plunder through swollen sky,
cursed by the air surrounding,
coddled and heated at the pyre
with a stale fist to the stomach
like a sacrificial cow before a feast;
i gather at the table and dine
with serpents at the altar
before the King.
scraped from the plate,
cast into a sack,
and handed 209 pills
i become the Queen of Blue
enrobed in hospital-white flesh
commanding Father to kiss at my feet;
i grow tired of these things and
let the stagnancy seep.
my memoirs crown like
multifaceted gems emerging
from a fatherless Mother
gripped at the neck by some
heretic proclaiming about prodigy
and the people applaud at my feat;
i shake hands with the devil
and go back to sleep.
i slumber across the Atlantic
where i can hear your voice
breaking at the shores, calling
for a revelation in me,
oh! for the love of God--!
the current worries and swallows
me whole like a crook in need
of a baptizing.