Fish Scales in the Drain
Stars
what of these stars
that line our flowers,
pale against blue,
some brown on red,
have a message for us,
but don’t leap
nor shout, don’t flicker
call attention, but not
for our sake
what in them disturbs
the bees to stimulate
then tweak the dust
that bears more stars,
ingests our blues,
our reds, our flesh
Thanatos
All men are born; all men die.
Mother is the invention of necessity.
This Body, This Voice
1
Examples of this body
are everywhere and here
under a table, the loose bits
of skin torn from its psoriatic
elbows and hips, peelings
like fish scales in the drain
if only it were skin
from some golden apple
bare to any mouth,
to a girl
who takes it
in her hands
and bites,
heedless,
yet full
2
This voice: like bells
bells like flowers, petals
like soft keys played
in some concerto not
written for them,
but somehow just them
just this, a tiny piece
that rings
like sunshine,
like peals
of green glass tinkling,
broken by skin,
sent through a metal
wand,
to air
Vermont Summer
Over the summer, Ida made Bob chop seven
cords of wood for winter. Every morning
Bob went to the outhouse to hide from Ida’s
brothers and her. He read the funnies or drew
on the walls. Soon he would have to mow
the fields, too–the brothers would be off
fixing roofs. By August, we stopped
in to fix chicken curry for them on their
Franklin Stove. That wood stove heated
their water, too–a tank hung on the stovepipe
and hot water funneled from that tank
to all bathrooms and to the kitchen sink.
