Sunday Queen
Queen is free as a mite
in the Lord’s mystical eyebrow,
growing ears for no reason.
Her appetite is large & windy,
her bowels are brilliant gardens,
imagining the bag of Time.
What is Tapestry but a hairy portal?
What is Queen but a fruit assortment
speared on a wire, lusty for boars?
Queen papers her insides.
Her beard bakes in the oven.
Her cake arrives on a rat.
The huntsmen are upon the Lord’s
lice, his succulent follicles
and bowing trees. But Queen’s
a gerund, stuck in gelatin,
inging in horrible percussion,
saying—I am, already,
tired of being a pony,
saying—Rush me to the soup,
where I may dream.
Queen’s Mother
Rubious, dumpling beauty, pregnant
with a Harp, she wheels a scooter
this spring morn, chewing cod-chunk.
What she looks at wears her heat:
Alleys ruddle, a fork inches
towards a grave, a cat marries
a bloody finger, a carriage-sized
snail swerves left. A captain
picks fish-scraps for dinner.
Mrs. Queen’s mind is slaughterhouse
post-closure, flowers odoring planks.
Harp will be such a flower,
thinks Mrs: dolt of weather,
motion, beginning. Black story rising.
Each hill is a tongue, severed
long ago. Mrs. knows history:
Of distorted bits the world
is forged. The golden work
is looking. Streets slurk, slurk.
Hills—bards of no hope. Town
is a Mrs.-shaped hole. She listens.
Queen’s Eulogy for Uncle
Uncle was a dark hummer. An ulcer.
A germ, buttery. Riding a swan.
Scarce in manner, deciduous of habit.
Sudden prose assaulted him
breakfast, lunch, and Mass. He prayed
into a bucket, which barked back.
Uncle, a bird never plundering. Starving
in undergrowth as worms ruled the earth.
O Uncle, you were single as a spear.
You were my best lamp, a vulgar
lantern for ruined tunnels. An uncle
once is an uncle burrowing forever.
