A Mouth And Its Name
You told me north water
was not built by virga
but from suicide of the moon.
That letters could turn
into ruptured atlas,
spill off the brass orbit of a dirge.
Go on living, but never say
the names of the dead.
That’s what you said.
No muscle inside the bells.
A weapon body does not give.
I mark you in charcoal:
anonymous.
It was you throwing feet
against the glass frame.
You let me dream of sand rattling
its desert costume,
then polished coins
ripped from a string of iridescent beads.
With it, every shattered hyphen
that erased you
from your animal sign.
The Hour After Stars
Rose petals wash in fire.
I graze my swidden body.
I hear the crow’s voice
before I see it land in the leaves.
A handwritten letter of provision
hides inside
the pantry.
Cold as the wolf
who takes the calf,
I stare into the boulder’s mouth,
make my kills in this citadel season.
I drink from a nest of bees,
sip their stings as ginger
on my tongue.
Afterlife comes at the end
of a book,
when I walk into the opal winter.
The lines are roped into a ladder.
My dew of blood adjourns.
The latticed coffer closes over
the little horse.
