Sublimation

She watches the man as he slices rare beef at his wife’s table,

balances the steel knife in his palm.

Feeling the weight and substance of her gaze returned,

her longing spools out its own story.

Leaving their home she moves carefully,

as if he were not inside her,

their musk not rising like incense,

her tongue not running against the grain of his eyebrow,

his thumbs not twinned over her nipples.

At home, awake,

quickened by the rapture of her own risen blood,

she notes each step of a fly on the down of her arm.

Weaving

You have to be ready to touch it all,

to slide your fingers between the warp threads,

pressing into the weft.

You must kneel, squat, reach,

as it demands.

Leave wool alone on the loom

for three days

and it draws evil spirits.

To make the gift

you must love it every moment,

even when you are sick to death of it.

And touch it, even in the places that cut.

Don’t Read This

For god’s sake, put down the book

and do something useful.

Open a window, blow the stink off;

stir fry up some fresh vegetables,

call a friend to join you for dinner;

buy a card for someone who’s sick;

go outside and get some exercise,

you’re pale and gone to flab, look

at those thighs!; wash your kitchen floor,

it’s full of dog hair, bird seed hulls

and muddy footprints; and walk that dog,

she’s getting tired of sitting home

with nothing to do but eat the crotch

out of your old underpants; light a candle,

say a prayer for the dead, or the living,

or for yourself, somewhere in between.

Some Little Ones

Branding

Used to be what men did to animals.

What owners did to slaves.

Now embraced by the Great Society.

Our new ideal.

To be branded.

 

Over Time

Our bodies begin to obey our pleasures

in middle age.  Our laps open to receive our loves.

Our eyes dissolve the hard news into soft grey fur.

Even in sleep we weave up dreams

from the colored rags of our days

to soften our steps.

 

Road Trip

Stuck in Stuckeys with truckers starin’,

she’s on display in downtown Herrin.

Fixing a Drawer

Pull the wreckage over the runner.

Unload the corn holders, spatulas, slotted spoons,

jar opener, unclaimed keys, and a three-to-two adapter.

Take time to reminisce about

the fight you had with your ex.

Attempt to squirt glue into the slot

without pulling the drawer apart.

Pull the drawer apart the rest of the way.

Sit on the floor.  Try to cry.

Quickly pour glue into every crevice

while making a plan to sell the house and move into an apartment

as soon as you get your unemployed brother to move out

and put a couple of the dogs to sleep.

As the glue drips onto the tile,

hold the sides of the drawer together.

This will allow you to feel the particle board disintegrate.

Keep the pressure on anyway while you wipe at the drips,

coating your hands and pants with a new, swiftly stiffening skin.

This is your life.

 

The Forest

Certain African tribes believe there are gradations of death, ending with completely dead forever.

The forest sleeps, wake her up.

The forest sleeps and her children are afraid.

The forest sleeps too long.

The honey is scarce and hard in the hive.

The animals fly through the nets.

The leaves hiss like panthers as we walk loudly,

clapping and singing songs of no meat.

The forest is sleeping like death.

If we wake her she will feed us.

If we wake her the babies will grow fat.

If we wake her the leaves will cool the huts.

But she grows thin in sleep

and we grow white with dust.

We are her children under the moon.

We slap the bottoms of each others’ feet

to keep up our singing.

Before she is more dead.

Before she is completely dead forever.

The Good Die Young

The rest of us live.

We clean the truck’s windows; wash the sheets;

press our thumbnails into our child’s wrist to quiet her down;

hear the hollow thunk of our shoe connect with the dog’s chin,

half accidentally;

turn cruelly from the weak; buy a little something for ourselves;

tell the joke that hardens a heart;

forget his birthday, the anniversary, our sorrow.

While we worship the good who have gone before

we can not help

but love ourselves.