Tuesday, February 7, 2017

Your Place

Daughter of mine,
you were raised:
in the pasture
below city stars
in a mud hut
in front of the jury of my peers.
I know you were brought from above
to your corner of
gravity.
So no matter, stay
in your glass building, in your
bungalow tucked close:
This is not where you hang your
coat, anyway.

Monday, December 12, 2016

Unnamed But Named

She pushes out the skin, the flesh and the blood.
She has a dinner party smile, the smile that all the others
wish they had.
She is no belle of the house and no high-heeled, typing Athena.
She is carrying stones, one by one.
She wishes for a category or box
for her days, slipping away like
all the rest.
He, the thumbprint on heaven and earth, whispers to her:
“Beloved,” he says.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

Shoes

Lord, the shoe soles are worn down from too many marches.
Shoes that hold these curves and secondary skin.
March, anyway, lady.
The best is just to wear down the leather. 
So there she goes, marching along: An elephant inside...

Sunday, July 10, 2016

A Wish

Blue eyes, crystal clear flesh like her mother...
I don't know the spaces she will inhabit : stucco wooden utopias where she will host parties for 
the others. 
But I hope for an understanding of beyond primary colors.
A paintbrush poised to deny landscape and form: to dance across the sidewalk edge
to a city street full of deep brown. 

Saturday, July 2, 2016

Thief

You stole her eyes. 
An abduction of a connection 
That is my soul. 
I care for the eye-less. 
A timeline of: the rush of bath water and the drizzle of excrement, a smile and a wandering foot.
I button my uniform and disappear, appear in the day and the night: watching and waiting. 

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Surprise

Move in me, dear:
the different love beside my other part and below
the blessed one with thorns. 
You are an element not whole of me, but you still fill the secret spaces. 
Your skin's red shade is a mystery but also as close as 
my morning awakening. 
You have me at the green screens, waiting for the next flash of color.

Saturday, June 4, 2016

Growing

Wriggling across the landscape: both frozen and with sprawling vegetation:
Her skinny digits  begin their first exploration.
I want her to try it, to delight in it. 
But this wars with the 
tiny body curled on my rib cage.
She is from me: a beautiful mess pulled
from a broken body. 
I want her to be: the bird burrowed in its nest, a wax sculpture. Instead she is the plane's exhaust in a blue sky, the charging bull.