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First Scars
last night
I dreamed of your drop-point.
It was snowing and a muted river
lay just outside the split panes.
That afternoon, we'd melted the snowbank,
veins rising, and by nightfall
your hair was neavy with crystals
and my belly paunched
water and stars.
Inside by the fire
we undressed and you cried
as we slow-thawed. I dry your hair
with mothers's old robe,
and for awhile, man-child,
you are only mine
from this body,
from the womb of rivers,
dreaming breathing
breathing reaching
silver moon silver trees
silver hand cord cut
the bleeding begins.
Killers
I.
Today we executed a sparrow,
A twitching, scant teacup of creation
undone by the hounds. Just took your gun and
made a perfect hole in its perfect head
and it stopped there on the other edge of
birth, completed.
I was spectator, not trigger-puller.
For fifteen minutes I'd watched its slow-bleeding
before you came out
and did it.
You are compassionate,
a hunter who respects what you kill,
angel to these husks of misery.
It's quick. You lay him out on a newspaper shroud
and wrap carefully the shame of dogs
and humans.
II.
I laugh when we get inside,
the blast a gestalt, entrance to this tomb inside
where I have placated the dying and clutching
things in me until they stop sounding--
that which has lost everything,
except recollection.
Tonight before I leave
I ask you what it's like to pull a trigger,
to allow something to go unburdened.
It feels right, clean--almost holy you say--
an opening of hands. And sad, as are these
necessary murders...
III.
This difference between us, not so different
tonight. Even love seems to breed the murderer,
leaves their subjects convulsing--
waving from driveways,
promises beaten
into smaller
and smaller
feathers
for the air.
On The Ward
there is a woman
lifting her island purples
for the chosen captives.
She wears no panties
that we can see
and ferments out of her eyes.
She says look at this...
I look, see nothing
feel nothing, but the cotton binding
in my skull unwinding
sin and smoke into sunflash,
creeping the air I must
take back inside.
Deadened and adrift,
women pilot for men.
They pat their hair like little clouds
at just the proper wing-turn,
drool in that luscious
startled-angel way--insanity
purple-bleed-scarlet
on lips.
Men forget to shave
and their cactus shadows
sow the uneasy floors--
sediment is always shifting
like insight at the mercy
of altered blood and
quick-shock before daybreak.
They maybe see the light,
dismiss it--headlights
of untouchable spirits
of women taken down or sons
cut away from the bone.
It is so lonely
to be the thorns.
On their thorozine,
I am unnecessary
There once was a girl
on the bathroom floor,
pocket-full-of-percodan but
she don't have to
be here anymore
I like living fearless
being high up here with you,
shadow-stroller
night sailor.
I like midnight deserts
and the skirts of wind-shears,
petticoats flying.
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