1. The Dead

We are deflated bladders,
bruised fruit.
Our lips and hands – chapped –
we fall away to those
hungry microorganisms
nestled, alive
between the sandy lines
of our cells.

Preserved, we are made in rouge
and ivory pancake –
glown Girlie Mag portraits
for the perverted
and the alone.

2. Birdsong

Let us not misunderstand
a screech owl’s call.
It is no more a screech
than my own hollering
across the cafeteria:

“Can I borrow two dollars for pudding?”

Later, at the table, my partner warns me
never again to screech at him in public.

And my cheeks swarm pink
for the branding.

My raised voice is not unlike this owl’s cry;
his call is a call of need, a seeking of spirit,
a sometimes mournful trill that flushes
to the killing fields of night and bears
the question: “What’s there for me?”

But how misunderstood we are,
the earnest extension of want
or feeling is labeled
a blood-thinning shriek.

Screech is a word for witches,
old haggish wives
left alone too long
with their soured thoughts,
their cold, sagging breasts
and their unmitigated understanding
that a cry is a cry is a cry
to all men

and ornithologists.

3. In Medias Res

Arnold asked Jenny to close her eyes
so as not to stare him down
during intercourse. Sometimes
he took her from behind
to avoid this query
altogether.

But by then
the girl had already numbed
to the sting she'd once known
such a breach to be. There was no more
clawing at the fatty bulge above her pelvis,
no more whimpering through pursed lips.

Now was the time
of Jenny's anesthetic familiarity
with physical love.
And in her bend, her recline,
her thrust was the vestige
of a girl who'd once thought herself
well prepared.

4. Middle March

Everyone’s gone fishing this weekend –
The juice shops are quiet,
And here I am, alone in the kitchen.
Even the catbox is empty.

Standing by the sink
I probe my mouth with soapy fingers,
hoping to find someone else’s chewing gum
lodged beneath my tongue.

5. What I Want Is

To run away from myself,
to sprint at such exorbitant speeds
that I might break some unseen barrier
known only to crackpot physicists,
and separate, bluster away
a dissolute clay self,
disturbed by age
and past infirmity.

To half myself and lose
the worst, the fat
and agonizing twin
womanchild who refuses
to offer me, when pressed,
all my wit
and faculties.

To propel forward,
like a great white shuttle,
only that light,
unpolluted spirit--
whatever part of me
is designed to ascend.

Something left to save
when the rest falls limp,
wilts to personed rot,
ever lost, forgotten,
perhaps forgiven.

I think of this at night,
and twitch my feet beneath my blanket,
like a dog observed when she is dreaming.

6. Altruists

I carry this horse on my back
for fear I can’t be fair
any other way. This
is about our partnership.

Up the long road to town,
her legs extend beyond my ribs –
her hooves drag, pare trenches
through the dirt, the nip-tips
of her silver shoes wearing to dull,
perfunctory nubs.

Her tail sweeps up brickle burrs,
picks up flecks of clay; I feel as though
I am flagellated when she swats at flies.

But this is for the sake of us.
And what is sacrifice
between friends?

7. I am Noah

A morning screened to somber shade
Fetched sevens of them slick –
For in the night the gulfs they made
Had caused a wet to stick.

The rain had come with clamant deed
To drive them from the soil –
They poured onto the blacktop bead
As grasses swam in oil.

Standing there on bus-stop hill
I plucked them from the stone –
And brought them to a darker gill
Before the sun-suck shone.

Yes, some might say it sets a squirm,
But I, in fact, am Saint to worm.

8. Vainglorious

I starved myself
in New York.
For lack of funds –
perhaps.

But
I reasoned
starving left me lean
and pretty.

I thought a good man
would catch me
alluring
and take me home
to keep me, care for me –
water me, though I would
refuse his sandwiches –
his nymphet.

But
on a subway platform
below 53rd street
I collapsed from hunger
smashed down
to the old concrete
and cracked my face
wide open.