ii.

the view from in here:

the curves, colors, corners—

 

forming the anchorage of

you. the angled wood running

 

down hallways, dreaming of

being trees in a time before

 

scarcity. she didn’t want to grow,

to move, to change; she knew:

 

something is wrong. she crept into

the wall and fashioned herself in-

 

to a knot: good for the slaying.

from beyond she is still saying:

 

throw me a line. it continues

to feed our gibbous infamy.

un-finish-ed

we watch our mothers, and

our mothers’ mothers; we

see the face cream, the grays

edging in, the soft clasp of

 

gravity. but we don’t think we

will become them; we don’t think

we believe in form, in discipline,

in the sparrows hiding in the

 

fury. but gradually, gradually, the

edges begin to blur, the beaks start

to speak, and the frame fills:     this

is the only way to be with both the

 

sorrow and the bliss, with the passing of so

many chapters, and the grisly opening of a

deeper chasm of books never fully read, never

fully grasped, up to the very end: un-finish-ed.

 

 

 

 

 

our house divided

inside this body are seasons:

orange, brown, white, black, green, pink.

they oscillate in the wind; they keep

trying to tell me who i am.

 

i am a book of years wrapped in

ribbons of non-time; i am matter and

anti-matter dancing along a loop of infinity.

we still do not know what lies at the core.

 

each month i unwrap one year;

every few days is a new moon,

waxing and waning with terror and beauty,

hunger and spirit, numbness and nothing.

 

no one can tell me who i am.

i must move this spectrum through space,

cutting closer to the center:

galvanized by love, rage, curiosity, grace.

 

if you have ever sustained anyone of any age,

you know the cycles we take: trays, cups, utensils, bottles,

napkins, needles piled up all over the house—pills counted

and swallowed, like stuffing wishing coins into a cuckoo clock.

 

we perch and hang onto the edges until we can

no longer fight the urge to lie down, to face

our house divided, to be horizontal like the rolling hills,

waving and watching from a great depth-distance.

a day is worth so much more than fifty cents

i keep finding myself driving down the short, short street

where i lived while you died — past the canary-yellow

pick-up whose bed remains empty; past the arched-flowered

front porch; past the circular stone drive.

 

where we walked to the first school bus stop,

beside the cool morning bench and lavender

bushes and walnut tree growing a stunning yellow

fungus in the shape of a swelling flower;

 

where my girl waited and cheerily tossed rocks,

petals, leaves into the gaping hole where the tree’s limbs

intersect — as if to say, you are beautiful; you are

worthy of receiving love unto your selves.

 

just down the street, the city library — where i can

never seem to stay in good graces; three weeks just fly

by and away and leave me in the breathless red:

a day is worth so much more than fifty cents.