I haven’t taken the time to get to know you. I’ve distracted myself with minutia from the day we met. Early on, it was strictly out of curiosity. And at the time, you fascinated me, too. But as I got older, the spark of light or glint of sun on metal called to me more than the light in your eyes. As I got older, I put things between us, forgot how to take care of you, let you go hungry. It’s hard to turn away from these creature comforts. It’s hard to actually take care of yourself.
There are many things that deserve words and thought and prayer.
It is not something that comes in the night and whispers its arrival.
It is something made out of clay. A miniature Adam. A tiny model.
The thing you will use to cast replications of your great sculpture.
The journey of a self is like the journey of a priest. In their youth
they yearn for the depth and seriousness of their goal, believing
I am deep enough to understand the four letter word hope
But a wealth of understanding only highlights the lack.
This light to dark is archetypal. It is as deep as dual nature.
Mostly what we cannot know is the momentum of things.
What is the electrical pulse inside that keeps time with the universe?
The task of seeking is actually much simpler.
It is a task of initiation.
It is the doing of the thing.
My thoughts are held
inside Russian Dolls,
airtight and proportionate.
Like cloned, women soldiers
lined up above my desk,
they look down at me writing.
Long lashed, pearled, and hungry
to hold another organ
thieved from my body of theories.
Tiny canopic jars,
will you let the rotting musings fall
onto pages and smear between lines
bloody trails of may be genius?
I open and open and open each
nesting doll to nothing
inside their wooden chests.
The feminist meeting is always held in the same odd locale.
The room is typically masculine, the attendees are typically not.
The hostess reminds them, “Keep moving past
that floral living room, the kitchen (devilish word)
and on to the den!” Canned beers crack open.
Coors. Keystone. Corona. Never flavored or coolers.
The attendees become cunning and prolific writers.
Drunk, they yell nonsense haikus like
The penises lie
next to the winter fire
while bras turn to ash.
They finish with a midnight vigil under Virginia Woolf’s portrait
and map out the extra room they all need
to one day write more than seventeen shrew syllables.
I find myself tweezing frayed thread
from a scarred hand. I doctor myself
like I’m tending to shrapnel
but you have let your ends dangle,
little couplets through skin.
I remember, you took my hand
and, poetically, knit it to your own.
Needle of noun, thread of verb.
The space between us closed
like a healing cut, but blood
would seep from that space,
from my stitches.
You always had thicker skin.
You pulled at the seam, suddenly
uncomfortable with the closeness.
The words bury themselves between taste buds
and refuse to make themselves know to mi profesora.
They are the strangest texture and choke my voice.
I mouth the pronunciation: pro-nun-ci-a-ci-ón.
My professor’s fluent words gradually cake me.
It’s as if she put flour into a cotton candy machine.
spin fling stick dust cloud
es mi turno de hablar
I blink my eyes but the damn words dust my lashes,
the wetness of the corners make paste.
The cloud pushes into my nose and makes me sneeze. ¡Salud!
It cakes my mouth. spit wipe swallow but no.
No hablo español.
No hablo español.