His

I was made to sing

for him in the clouded castle

when the wind was too empty

of rhythm, and woman

His touch stumbled over my strings

His voice rumbled over my songs

I was his

hidden pearl, hatching egg, lightning bug,

in his palm he liked to touch

my notes until every string of me quivered

with him. I shivered to be heard

under the thick skin of his voice

which grumbled through mine,

smothering my do, re, mi, fa with crystal

honey thickness of fee, fi, fo, fum

Until the boy came

with little spider scuttles behind the coffee mug

I screamed, but his hands pressed

the music from my sides and scrabbled me away

from my master, who following, fell, fractured

my maker, my giant,

my man

Communion

On the ashed altar of the street: A cat’s

anatomy—filimental whiskers

and steeple ears, the unraveled sermon

of her viscera. This is my body, broken

for you.

 

We partake: mites creep up her aisles

on their knees and the birds fall

like prayers. They—the cat, the mites,

the birds—are scattered some by cars.

Exhaust lingers

 

where the breath of life has rushed out

her chambers, through her

curtain tongue, the long note

of an alto before the organs

are silent.

 

I wonder where she was going,

if her parents know, how many times

she will be washed by the rain, if her soul is dim

in the belly of a blackbird.

The mites are sincere.

 

In their nests, her eyes will fill

Five-thousand.

 

 

 

Pear Lover

You were a shapely drop

of flesh, an alien

color, clothed sculpture

of curves, a dimple, a footed star

until bitten, a puddle

of your spirit dribbled through my teeth

a satisfaction of sugar that was soon

gone. Your white,

wet wound inspired

not sympathy, but desire.

Oh Dear God

I.

Give me

Patience

Now or if not

Now soon the pulsing slow motion notion of

Holding on

makes my marbled muscle ribbons scrunch against the bone

I know you don’t condone face punching or toe crunching

So bring it

II.

She joked

Patience

should not be pleaded for

because praying for it brings more perseverance

producing problems. So instead I prayed for

a bludgeon

III.

I let Him have it.

Every word I’d smoke-screened with sarcasm,

Every glare I’d painted with lowered lids,

Every fist I’d gloved with playful malice,

I said, I’m tired of

me.

and God said,

Good.

A Peace of Fish

A fauceted Nile swishes coldly in the quiet of a kitchen,

clean through a colander of sliced cucumber flesh.

A bare foot blond debones fish with knife cuts

on the cupboard. Spilled sun shines on sheltered dishes.

The small are often stuffed with wishes.