My second sleep, where red, white and blue are burning,
the ashes gleaning and glinting as they die.
I wake to the carmine rays of dawn
and fall asleep to the sound of fireworks outside.
I cradle the ivory dove in its mourning,
whispering, “Am I alive? Am I alive?”
My mother rationed it like electricity, food
enemies had to be beaten, bombs avoided
fires put out
Love would be shown
in a more practical way
through duty, service.
I was fond of that little place. There were costume-like clothes dangling above my head, willowy branches of a protective forest, and the walls formed an impenetrable edifice, bumpy and cold like Rapunzel’s tower. The clothes smelled of starch and my mother’s youth.
The bleached armory of the sea
Lay ever-washing on the shore
In casques and blades and bulwarks.
In your hand a gray medallion crumbles
To powder
And is claimed with haste
By the wind
I grinned at her and her enviable energy, soaking in her palpable brightness. She practically hopped around the kitchen, half humming a half-familiar tune, as she noticed every detail most people seemed to miss. There was no use in trying to stop this on my own.
Spider plant is the wrong name for my immortal perennial.
In all her newness, she remains
the same tuberous roots that I touched with tiny fingers,
eyes illiterate, but full of love.
The Body. My body. My body thus became insignificant, irrelevant even. I owned it, but I didn’t own it. I felt it, but I didn’t feel it. But I felt the times it was battered, abused, spited, pinched, pushed around, shut down.
They'll be tests, machines
that spin famished tubes with eyes
like steam engines hanging in space, and no matter
how deeply infrared you are, no matter
how many mean dogs you put out front
Begin typing your search above and press return to search. Press Esc to cancel.
