You can be hurt

afternoons when you cameback to me,your arms aching for me,though they smelledof other womenand your sweet head bowedfor me to ruband your heart burstingwith things to tell me,and your hairand your eyeswild.We would embraceon the carpetand leavethe imprint of our bodieson the floor.My back is still sorewhere you pressed meinto the rug,a sweet soreness I…

as if they were hearts,the hearts ooze a darknesslike india ink,& poets dip their pens in& they write.‘Here, at the end of the world,’they write,not knowing what it means.‘Here, where the sky nurses on black milk,where the smokestack feed the sky,where the trees tremble in terror& people come to resemble them. . . . ‘Here,…

gazing at the other worldunder the sea-that world of flickeringyellow-tailed fish,of deadly moray eels, of sea urchinslike black starsthat devastate great brainsof coral,of fish the colorof blue neon,& fish the colorof liquid silvermade by Indiansexterminatedcenturies ago.We pass, we pass,always looking down.The fish do notlook up at us,as if they knewsomehowtheir worldfor the eternal one,ours forthe…

I sleep with you-our dreams mingling,our breath coming & goinglike gusts of windtrifling with the breakers,our arms touching& our legs & our hairreaching out like tendrilsto intertwine.The first timeI slept in your arms,I knew I had come home.Your body was a ship& I rocked in it,utterly safe in the breakers,utterly sure of this love.I fit…

the sap flows,the sap wishes to raceagainst heartbeatsbefore the winter,before the winterburies usin her usual shroud of ice.I turn to youknowing thatunrequited loveis goodfor poetry,knowing that painwill nudge the museas well as anything,knowing that youare afraid, fetteredto a lifeyou do not love,& so unfreethat freedom seemsmore fearful eventhan the familiarbusinessof beinga grumbling slave.I livedthat wayonce,&…

does not need to be beaten.She beats herself.Not with a leather whip,or with stick or twigs,not with a blackjackor a billyclub,but with the fine whipof her own tongue& the subtle beatingof her mindagainst her mind.For who can hate her half so wellas she hates herself?& who can match the finesseof her self-abuse?Years of trainingare required…