Becoming a Woman of the Brook, Shade, and Moss
What if my body fell through bliss,
caught its last small toe on some hook
in descent? How, then, will we name
whatever is left, is aswirl, skull and clavicle
force-sculpted, at last, having roughly
fallen together to rest (wait) at the bottom
of my well, and certainly yours?
You tell me it's easy to pretend Ivan
will make room on his flaming bird's back,
when we are ready to be lifted, however restlessly,
away from woods, sea, maybe our bed suddenly
too small, knotted. You promise the feather's heat
will be worth the untying, the recognition
of this loss exchanged for riding away,
Yaga's hut distant, withering. Despite warnings,
there are only three ways to bury shame.
Before long we're asleep, mats spread over pebbles,
pillows wilted, and the beetle arrives with our keys
tucked in mandibles, tusks. The next day might
not come and no fortune hunter can reclaim
what was lost in the tucking in, folding under,
of these blankets too cool under our chins. We
will hear his wings too late and the fruit just drops,
jeweled carnage into the stream.
Folding the Invitation to Your Wedding
There is a plow waiting near my broken flashlight. Both promise a variation of warmth, perhaps warmth through what I can expect to carry by pushing under, giving root, perhaps by some illumination not yet anchored enough for closeness here, this page asking for response, for a bond of sorts. What can I ask of you? You, who lets a foot stay tucked under warm sand, hands in pockets, coarse hair falling over one cheek or the other? The curve of you a fleshy question mark near such open waters.
Why this snuggle into writing when shown the useless tool and the cylinder all broken plastic and glass? Objects meant to signify desire for reciprocity become, instead, talismans for clumsy loss, for wanting more, always more, than I am ready to let bare in the dirt. It's pale, when it touches my skin, this god-hand of distance, this god-touch of absence.
Words for Reach, Lines for Falling
Somehow, without sliding completely
back down the dune, I knew I missed
my moment. The realization, sharp
as deep pockets of tingle-pain in my molars,
overcame me completely. You had fallen,
rather rolled a backward soft smoosh
before I could give you my fingers
to serve as five stained ropes—
connecting me to you to the vista, small
and mild, and nothing different
from the other views from mounds
all sand and occasionally wind.
It was a leap to expect
being here might mark a change
between a blush under the bridal veil
and the one caught a month ago
when we said forgive, yes, and time will,
yes, and now here. I am sorry
for these shoes, for my mercurial shift.
Now I see more of the water
and am on top of the roundness
while you, whom I quicken to love,
slide, little grains, pink mica in your hair.