haiku

choking on thin dust
the robin sucks its wings
watches the trees ache.

_______________


the workmen call him
the body was on the tracks;
grayed and soft.

Can I sleep here
among the brambles and
goldenrod incense? Wet leaves
clinging to faces, creating masks
to throw off my recognition. A decade of sleep
and no dreams-
I am the coffer of unexcited
saltwater. The tears that fill it
are peppered with creation.
I have become my own embalming.

Westward dripping cowardice
a soft oak leaf decays into the sand.
The dunes of Ludington-
drinking red wine out of a glass coke bottle
and being hand deep when father walks in.
She is wet.
She is arched like a willow turned onto religion by tornado.
This becomes my plan
secret moments held behind the buildings of youth and hunger
waiting moments where we gag and caw towards the purity of
silence.
There is a rehab center here,
never once have i seen these men
breathe.

last night Jaqui held the copper kettle over
the flame in the yard. the woods were aching and
i could hear the snap of age in their flesh.
common people hang plants and draw portraits
on front porches. the roaches of a
common persons house
grow fat and call hungry at night to their mates.
ours are laying here
in the yard, rotting,
spitting, and throwing cans at our feet.

they are aware
that i love you. does this upset you?
in the tree you are sleeping,
curled up with the small birds.
they are a blanket that you really should wash.
their wings are broken,
their feathers are falling off
like the bread flour of a cattail.

i am underneath your body,
climbing as you drift in and out of sleep.
have you ever known what it is
to be finally alone:
to hear the other body
rest in its worries
while you cough and
pull at yourself,
and still
thankfully,
no one wakes?

we were in a corner of the garage as the rain fell upon you
through the hole in the tin.
it reflected and darted away from my skin.
your breasts were pained at the sight of concrete,
they pressed on anyways. when you are feeling hungry
and he has not set the table,
i will throw a cloth on to the earth,
we shall eat together once again.

when i am walking
and sweeping the wheat before me
the bluebirds call out in a hazy
mist of Gennesee River spirits
and Maple sap.
when i am sleeping
and crying out through
landed, courted visions that i have
fully penetrated
only then does the lake bed
grow dry.

i have been
captured
by your drum.
i cannot cut the skin.
the tone
prays within me.

from my book, 33 Gods:

mother ganga



where, when i am younger
the creek flowing over my
soft body, i became who i am.
a timid mouse, held under the weight
of the dry elephant.
i am of this place;

the lonely woman who lives too far off-
there are no men to call when she is hungry.

from my book, 33 Gods:


sick, but hungry.

persistent.

calling at ten after midnite
even though it is too late.
she won't answer
anyways.

from my book, 33 Gods:

Sati,

I want to keep you-
lips chapped,
in a tin house.
The wind praying
mercilessly
among the rafters-
the trees playing their bows
against the shingles.

for whatever reason it rose-
we gave softly and became the (its) cavern.
lost watered buttons
and hand-me-down shudders;
the dogs are running full speed into the field
and i am too weak to cry out.