i am the bell
being rung
the round waves
of sound
the half–moon ears
they ripple to
some thing made me
look
deep to my
root
sung through
with love
it’s been a long time trying
climbing out of holes
crafting ladders
of wood and rope
of skin and bone
i am the creation
the artifact dug up
again and again
i held on as he rocked and bucked
as he shook and cried and spat curses
i clung until i felt it push into me
until i saw red: a river of blood
bright as if spilled
exploded as if out of body
i held on until rage flung me to the floor
he didn’t even know
he wasn’t in the room
another day yawns
blinding light
creeping air
dreams latch on
eyes threaded
flailing into patchwork
gilded with a thousand lives
hinging on revelation
i exist right now
just what is
kites for arms
legs like lead
mother calls less and less
no one wants to always chase
other times i’d be impressed
pandemics have new rules
quarantine’s a waterbed with a pin–prick
running out of duct tape
sending more bodies into the ground, into the air
trying on the next life
ultra–violet seams unraveling
violence steeps
water water everywhere
x–ray hindsight
young cells without mouths cry out
zoned for rapture
October is the finest month. I step out into it, straight into the sky. It opens and opens. It holds everything—my thinning crown, ten years of father gone, the horror of child death. Objects greet me from below—a hunched leaf like a toad, an old tennis ball turned peach, a strip of rubber snake. I hear the blue jays, screeches from early memories.
I walk among the houses propped up like giant gravestones. Most are gray or tan or neutral without a name. A few pop in bold shades of rebellion: Bellini Fizz, Melón Meloso, Avid Apricot. Some dance with the dead, strung with webs, orange lights, skeletons.
Dad asked to be cremated. Even in death, he was thrifty. We had to sign a paper stating that fragments of other people’s bones may reside in his urn.
The trees are the color of slate, the color of the clouds. One tree reaches out with lavender arms. When young, we’re taught to color trees brown, brown, brown. We don’t yet know the color families.
The years begin to swallow up the bones, starting at the jaw, moving to the collarbone, the hips. The fat fills in. I let my hair grow. The teeth have a mind of their own.
Each porch tells its story: Piles of packages by the steps. Interrupted chalk play. Lighthouse painted tiger painted vase. Mud-caked gardening boots at rest. Hollowed pumpkins wait for their end.
you remember
one owl
i remember
two
it was snowing it was night
it was all new
crouched
in a red cabin in the blue mountains
what did those snowy owls see
perched
on an iced branch under the wide moon
through the windows in our door
the panes we never thought to cover
until they held the head of the intruder
the haunt of missing children
boot prints in the snow
writing a poem
in the middle
of a workday
is an act
of rebellion.
the door in your throat
creaking open — dark
light kettling into the
void, where a tiny
human in a tiny room
counts coins,
hunched in a captain’s
chair going
no where.
he has never been loved;
she will never earn enough.
there’s nothing in that panic
room for you.
step back;
steep away:
let only living cells
hold you —
breathing medallions
stored up inside
waiting
for flight
how long have i held
in hand in heart
too long
not long enough
i want to burn it all
down
but not
enough
i burn
just a piece
a slice of hair a corner of arm
one toe
what is in your hands
would i know if you were dead
i clutch these thoughts
spread them all out
tearing across years
thinning into nothing
just let it burn
just let it die out
in this cave
an ember
a sign of life
a touch of memory
a touch of mother
of what we once were
and know
and love
pressed into motion
heating the engine
turning the motor
searing the brain
this crucible
this combustion
this pain branding
this
i drape into the green
as it takes its time
to fill in, to sheen.
that first season, my
noise heft rush
were held, absorbed
by the innumerable plush — as if,
leaping from the balcony, i could be
caught in that lush net; then,
each leaf loosened, slowly
let go, opened
a path to the aching
blue, to that stoic
lurch of mountain
bare-pulsing
through — and i
knew i was witness
to a private magnificence.
we didn’t mean to;
there was an accident
by the sea of serenity.
in the end the arch mission
was still reached:
pieces of the five kingdoms left behind.
we keep trying to learn from
the tiny-tough among us—
the cockroach, the marmorated stink bug,
the microscopic tardigrade—
how to reanimate, how to invade,
how to survive
a vacuum, a thrashing, a war;
how to live on
and on
on the moon.
will we learn before we are all gone?
will the water bears find water
and take over the moon?
billions of seconds from now, more than you
could count in several lifetimes
—the average lifetime spans
22,075,000 seconds—
who will find these moss piglets:
wrapped around scores of compressed
recordings and ribbons of our DNA?
and what is the story that will be told?
Tardigrades live all over the world in some of the most extreme environments.
when you left
my words went with you
i felt them pulling away
like a great tide
how i longed to follow
them into the sea
how i longed to put an end to
them you me but
i see them floating up
like a buoy
i see them saving you
as they once did me
and i cannot begrudge you this
i watch for a time
from the dry shore
then turn away
turn back to sand sand sand
a long shoulder of bone
lunachik 