anguish and famine at their own intervals: stage notes

here comes
famine, the warring
spirit,
knocks over your tea
scoffs at the baklava

not precisely unkind
yellow-belligerent
will dance you from this
room while
you hug her neck, suck
like a baby

famine
if nothing else
will hold you.

anguish the goldenrod
flourishes in a corner
coming          spectacularly          undone
he cannot write your letter
of recommendation
                                                     all things
                                                     so busy belonging
to someone else
too much
                                                     to bear

(anguish pulls his cape tighter)

then here comes you
a lovely-quick stardust pocket
a cinnamon and sandalwood
girl-universe seeping
the tiny confines of body

famine falls before you
anguish splits open to pour laughter
at your feet

the only thing
they cannot do for you
is disappear

cradle

there is a house
in my imagination
strong enough to cradle all
this light in my belly
close enough, soft enough
to rock me when i stumble
indoors exhausted
from flinging rays out of me
bathing in its glow
as much world
as i can reach
& when i think of
this shack
this palace
this lean-to
firm-standing & wide open
as me
i weep
or either don’t
as often in God’s work
i am too tired
for tears

don’t

(happy valentine’s day! i’m actually not cynical about love [anymore] but i genuinely like this poem. i’d love to hear your thoughts on it! )

men

wearing innuendo

blunt as old blades

suggest

as a way of flirting

that i should write poems

for them:

smiles wide as memory,

voices winking seduction.

they do not know

how their blood will taste

flooding underside of tongue.

they do not know

my poems are my weeping

my ancestors

my vulgar spilling menses

my alchemic reckoning.

they have never smelled

their flesh

curling under flames

like a heavy lover,

the sweetness

of their bones smoking to soot,

and i do not tell them

either.

i say, ‘i will show you

the man for whom

i wrote many poems.

ask him when you meet him.’

i say, ‘ask him what

he lost in the fire.

ask him the fire’s name.’