winter comes on strong

There's a split in my hand--
the dried blood seals the chasim
and directs my attention elsewhere..
to my thumb, the way it sticks out
and hitchhikes when I want it to stay
home and read the paper. Paper cuts.
She told me it would rip, if I wasn't
"big enough". Sometimes my body
does not welcome strangers, or lovers..
no matter how wet I am.
I told him this before he left, told him
I could try harder, try to stretch
and open more. I made no promise,
he made no gesture to stay. I can
still see his tire prints in the driveway,
in the snow. I can still see how I
clench my coat around my body,
how I lock heat and myself in.

"First you have a woman and then you have a poet"

The doctor said she would "expand", said it while he washed his hands for the fifth time. She thought of a nuclear bomb...how just before everything explodes into flames, the walls swell and bubble. She watched him lay out his "tools", saw the flourescent light reflect off their edges and spin off into the room. She closed her eyes and saw a lion-- with silver claws slicing thru her solitary tower, releasing a princess from captivity.

The threat has hands,
has thread and needles
that sew and prick
the portrait of peace.
We often go running--
away from, or to, the
window...we toss the
pear out and lean over
to watch it smash and
split.

bone of my bone

I ignore the fever
to write, to admit:
the fall of man,
the panic of orgasim,
the fence I'm straddling.

I have known the thrust
of love-- the way it moves
in and out, the way it ocean's
over me-- my body
is the wave your finger's pulse.

I cannot write, but know, the taste
you leave in me-- the salt that
seasons, the honeycomb wax
that drips deeper in and seals.

Pinned between Your blades

This is not about Abraham
and the way his wrist twisted
and hand shook from
clenching the knife.
This is not about Jonah
or the whale, or the green
vine that withered in the blaze
of sun.
And this is not about the time
Peter denied, Judas committed
suicide, or when Your body
was broken-- like the bread.
This may be about the Babylonian
captivity, or the manna
that fell from the sky, or
when Jezebel was devoured
by dogs. It might be about things
that knock the wind out and hold
the hand with comfort
at the same time.

I spent last night smoking cloves with Billy Moon (aka. Christopher Robin)

The hay fire in my ears,
a taste of handsome on
my tongue-- he never notices
when I stare, or don't.
The sip of smoke in my mouth,
the slip of his hand up
my shirt. The sidewalk is cold
under my jeans; the smoke
keeps my lips warm.
There's a bulb blown on a strand
of Christmas lights on the house
across the street. I point
it out to Billy. He nods and lights
another clove.

and the temple was filled with smoke

there's a bake in the air, a turn
of the table-- the pastel pink of ham,
or a baby's ass, just slapped.
perhaps its my hand. I stuck it out
too far this time, too deep into
the cookie jar-- cracked by the voice
of God. the curve of finger over sin,
the golden hallo around his head-- a pinch
to my ideas of baby Jesus buried in straw.