Thursday, February 19, 2009

Jonathan Livingston

I saw a lost seagull soaring above the highway.
Let me have this, he said.
Let me have the sky, misplaced; let me have the wind
everywhere.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Fragments; a thought

When I was younger, I was always the boy; my feet
smelled like malt vinegar. 

He stands, stature, as the welcoming committee.
He tans his fur in the sun. 

She almost fell down the stairs she was so excited. 

They keep sending mail to the dead and he was turning 
green and the scales that covered his body were growing
out around him. He could not watch. And together, there
they sunk deeper into the folded fabric of the couch. 

A sock filled with her jewels. Diamonds
spilling onto the bedspread; followed by
our collective wet eyes. We threw almost
everything else away. The thought of her wrinkled
hands struggling with the toothpaste cap. She'd look
in the mirror, past her granddaughters faces and to the
face of a young one. A lost mother coming to take care
of her buried child. 

Armenian, I've seen those eyes before. I inherited them
from the boat, off the shore and into my grandmother's
eyes as she sat across from him on the ferris wheel. 

He's the first to hold my hand. 

Finally, though, it was the stones that did her in.
The beauty and the bluntness of them all. The irregularities;
the smoothness and the way they could walk on water. 

Monday, February 9, 2009

we must be broken

I did not lose you. I cut you,
amputated from me. I've found you
months later in a place I did not leave
you. 

I lay in sweat at night, but my skin 
freezes out from the covers. Taking off
my socks and feel you groan beside me,
on top of the comforter. Your breathing,
regular.

You did not flinch from my heat.

Now I rest with feet oiled for sleeping.
The earthly one. 
His orange peace sweeping from my toes
to my closed eyelids. 

Scene from Cold Mountain

The goat was happy 
when it died.

With one hand she
rubbed its back and
underneath the jaw
she was about to
sever.

It smiled.

Dawn filled the room. 

Thursday, February 5, 2009

The skin stretched tight over the penciled bones, malnourished.
I live to see hunger in the eyes and the beauty there not eating. 
To stop breath. 

There was something about the way she held her hair; as if
to keep it from soiling. And the part, it would lift from her scalp
at any moment. 

The he, pierced the fat of her fingernail, clear liquid 
ran from the needle. 

Attached to her is a frozen child. 

They are falling off cliffs together

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

(untitled)

Its all fruit when I think of us together; freshly
plucked and peeled.
Raw. and bruised, then rotten
at times. Our liquid hearts. Our
serpent hate. Our delicious bites.
The nutritious skin, discarded by most,
too tough to get through.