don’t mind me
at all-
I jump in frivolity
from one to the other
as the bee tests for honeysuckle nectar.
The proper endings of songs are not known to me.
Only a taste of a part of the art.
A tip of the hat, and I hot-foot it away,
Stay too long, and the feet soon get cold.
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Ancestral memory
In want of stories,
and of someone to read them to me,
I spoil the fun, envisioning
hillsides of mossy flow, far off in a fog.
An anxious kerchiefed woman
watching her man hammering a glowing sword.
Then, his returning, cut muscles bound with cord,
staunched with a maid’s cloth.
The face in the shoebox
That polaroid. Buddy was going through his shoebox of old photos, dealing them out like cards on the coffee table. I was stunned, but faked disinterest. The party drifted to the kitchen. He wouldn’t miss it. Xenia, how came this? So young. So innocent of your appalling destiny.
Jesus
“Don’t worry, Lina”, Jesus says to me.
-Meg Sefton
Sonse, Ospedale delle Bambole, Rome, flickr
I am not supposed to be touching little Jesus inside my purse while I am at church. But Uncle Danny gave me Jesus. Now he’s dead. I say sorry Jesus in case I touch his no no square. Mama gives me a look. Don’t worry, Lina, Jesus says to me.
132
we’re feeling closer than ever before
greeting hellos in distant passing
an acknowledgement of an external fight
we’re fighting inside
there’s no blood on the streets
and the lights illuminate every window
we’re living a history book, real time
we talk so much about nothing at all
we ask about each other’s day
and mean it
The cunning linguist
Gimme those geometries,
those triangles and squares,
Dimensional anomalies,
to tesseract my cares.
Compasses and sliding rules;
protractors are the rage.
And, adding and dividing tools
put answers on the page.
So, at my desk, I’m bent upon
the solving of equations.
This genius that borders on
the softest of invasions.
Earnestly
Remember how to sing.
If not, to hum,
or whistle a waltz.
Understand the beast,
and restrain it
with a stumbling spot dance.
Think of your goodness,
and not of your sin.
Of the young,
for they are short of life.
Of your faith, or your doubt,
and the quality of prayer.
And darkness was upon the face of the deep
Lit the lights
in the empty black.
Spun off gaseous globes,
quick travelers caught in the slow sway
of their mothers.
Some boil down
with seeded airs.
A witching’s then afoot.
Hards and softs and liquids.
Bright lodes to find and mine.
And mind, next door-
Venus is venous.
A pause for thought
The slant of the sun.
The moss-green mechanic
with his fat cigar,
chuffing like a chimney.
The little kid threesome
on the gravel shoulder,
fist-pumping the diesel driver.
and the undetected grasshopper
atop my dusty boot.
How slowly I move.
I’ve never been here,
but I know it.
A killing
What’s lent
is a conjured greenfield.
A tree spreads,
knows the horizon.
I will feed
on atmosphere aquamarine
and minty clouds.
Give a cry at tempting scenes
of primal histories,
and wonder at our peoplings.
What words?
What doings?
With ages I am filled.
With cages, I am killed.
Aremyfeetofftheground 