‘Covenant I’ & ‘Daphne’

Poetry

Convenant I

the organ harvest is most/ delectable beneath fluorescent light/ rebelling
against the heaving stars/ the shock of being/ locked inside a/warehouse
without exits/ the delirium of chewing dark/ meat/ workers dance around the
rock circle/ they dig points of quartz and roses into their hands/ thorny/
minerals/ stalagmites rimming their wounds/ the workers collect their blood in
golden vials/for the toast/ sip/ the blood with such gusto/ you would mistake
them for thieves/ you would mistake them for/ yourself / you too enjoy that
profound disorder/ people wonder through plains/ and wheat/ jeering/ they
wear a cosmic execration on their heads/ a pack of coyotes is only frightening
if you’re not carrying/ a gun when/ you get bored/ of your liver or/ when
your liver gets bored of you/ you can upgrade/ when your lungs mold/ and
fungi begin to spore/ you can get a fresh replacement/just spin the order of
things in your favor/ and cast dice onto the legs/ of brujas

 


Daphne

lo que es madera

lo que permanece intacto

 

my skin will be so long and thin one day

it will rip in the wind and I will think of all

my greatest hits

my father’s belt against my ass

la fajiada que te voy a dar

the leather-lash and cattails

the eight-fisted whip

the blistering tumescence

of the warped tree I did

become

 

puta y su hija

sin vergüenza

 

recall my flesh splintering in your hands

when you took the ax to my flank

and halved me

 

you must want to be hacked to bits

you said

 

does it rain because God must be compelled to weep for us

does thunder roll into the hills to burn us clean

 

throw me against a window and I will burst

before I even split against the glass

my flesh pulpy as the meat of an overripe

stone-fruit

 

toss me and I will float

tip-toeing to the nearest ravine

where a water daemon will offer to revive me

in exchange for sex

 

I will consent

lapping purple water with my tongue

my hooves gripping the edge with the phantom

grace of roots