Who taught
the slug-brained?
That bovine seat of thought
that runs the basic body,
five and dime.
Be wary,
for the tether of its beast
may be quick to snap,
and, the hurtling act done,
the brain-child will stand protected,
in its blameless innocence.
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A cure for the chills
Me, I like a slate-tinted sky.
Shales of ice,
opaque underfoot.
The remains of thistles and rushes.
Holistic winds that purify
all but notions.
Think: How our bones and tears
have fed the oceans.
But now, I am for home.
Pour myself a cup of tea,
and think about the bubbles.
Surfacing
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.
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.
Aremyfeetofftheground 