to the passionate darkness,
you gaze out the window
at the light.
My love is the thing
that frees you
to follow your eyes,
as your love,
a sword made of moonlight
and blood,
and smelling of sex
and salt marshes,
frees me to gaze
with a calm inward
eye.
In all your frenzied searching
you never stood
calmly at the window.
But now the sea,
the city and the sky
are all seen
as if from a perch
at the edge of the cosmos,
where I sit behind you
gazing
at the fire.
as the wound cries for saltas the lover criesfor her unrequited loveras the ice cries outfor melting in the spring.My heart is a springthat pumps red blood.I would give my child,my girl child, my daughterthe vision of a motherwho does not flinchwhen the heavy heel of mancomes down,who loves the peniswhen it pumps rich red…
with its lemony tang, its tart sweetness& your whole body stings with singingso that your toes sing to your mouth& your navel whistles to your breasts& your breasts wave to everyoneas you walk down the summer street?What will you dowhen nothing will dobut to throw your arms around trees& men& greet every woman as sister&…
snowed in their white lives,white lies,to write bookswith that fine frenzywhich commends geniusto posterity,yet estranges itfrom its closestfriends.Women were friends to all,& being too friendlythey could not commandthe unfriendly prerogativesof genius,though some weregeniuses still,destroyingonly themselveswith the tormentof the unfriendly ghosttrapped in a friendlyform.Oh the women who dieddissembling friendshipfor the world!Oh the women who turnedthe dagger…
They whispered about us.I put yours on top of mine.They would not mate.Like poor dumb pandas in the London Zoo,they would not come together.I put them back to back.They would not sleep.I put them right side up to upside down.They would not lick each other’s wounds.The night we metyou fed me fish eggs & dark…
with iambs jumping in his hair like fleas,with all the revisions of his bodyunsaying him,walks to the podium.He is about to tell ushow he came to this.
a flaming halo-yellow, red, blueor pure white,taking its colorfrom the stateof the soul.Cynics scoff.Scientists make graphsto refute it.Editorial writers,journalists, & evencertain poets,claim it is only mirage,trumped-up finery,illusory feathers,spiritual shenanigans,humbug.But in dreamswe see it,& sometimes even waking.If the spirit is a brideabout to be married to God,this is her veil.Do I believe it?Do I squint& regard…
