Interring Amy
(January 16, 1942)
In wooden box,
they rest quietly
on shirred satin,
a pale woman
and between her legs,
the stillborn--
mouths shut tightly
beneath the dirt
Prelude to a eulogy
When my hair turns silver and the
menstrual
moon’s absent red tide leaves my skin pale as milk,
you will find me in the folds of age.
I will not regret my biography, nor
will I
argue the riparian rights of my lost flow.
I won’t pen my own obituary, or
ask
to be interred with anything not suited to dust.
But I will leave my poems here, with you.
--(first appeared in Another Sun)
Erosion
I used to believe in constellations,
that stars twinkled over graves,
and Cinderella dropped a slipper:
that was before the current
floated me downstream, before
the river polished me.
I am not your señorita
My eyelashes won’t fall onto
your
pillow; you can’t save them there.
I won’t gather dust on your
shelf, or
ink your name into the flesh of my belly.
I won’t save your letters while
I count the holes
in my shoes, or cling to the smell of your shirt.
I am not your señorita, or the salt
on the rim of your glass.
--(first appeared in Another Sun)
Zhivago
He wanted
to
take pins
from my hair,
let it tangle over
his ink-stained hands;
breathe the sun-
soaked
marigold strands
instead, he inked me
into poems; pretended
my name was Lara
Sand to pearl
I found myself rolling
on the floor with pearls
that chased eachother
off a broken string,
spilled, with the contents
of a box I pried open.
Pearls don't melt like memory;
they are glass, faux finished
in iridescent glaze; sand
heated and poured, or blown.
What I know now
is breaking the past open,
and I am leaking out, through
the crevices.
I expected to catch rain
on my lashes; to keep the prisms
with my pen; but it didn't rain.
Instead, I learned how little words
like heart and love mean; why its silly
to include them in a poem.
So I won't write poems with the word heart,
or burn moths' wings with anything like love.
Instead, I write of things like glue or tape.
Narcissus was
really a martyr
he loved to watch himself
in every passing surface
shiny and smooth enough
to reflect an image;
storefront windows were
a favorite; the long expanse
of nearly-mirror glass moaned
his name as he preened by.
I think he beleived I was Echo,
or maybe just hoped that was
the case, but I remained silent;
I didn't repeat the things
that storefront glass told him.
Narcissus banged into that window,
after a long time, distracted by
the vision, and it fell in fractured
shards around our naked feet.
See what I walked through for you,
Echo
He tore my shirt into strips, wrapped
his damaged toes in my fabric.
I left a trail of crimson footprints
as I walked away.
I am not Echo.
Vega, Texas, 1988
We were driving toward left coast
possibilities, until the gas and money
ran out near Vega on Interstate 40.
I only remember darkness, winking
lights, scattered sky jewelry--
not what I didn't eat, or how
the word hungry felt, or even
the place where we parked.
Our native tongue was cliché
and we thought the word love
was the answer to everything.
Not many folks live in Vega,
but there we were, sleeping
in that brown chunk of a car,
warm fingers interwoven
beneath dashboard lights.
Pain makes you beautiful
that's what she said to me
when she read the things
I scribbled down to ease
my shade of blue.
She told me how I am
not disposable; there is no
easy replacement, just
another notch on the nylon
fishing line. It isn't about me.
I can't be reduced to shades
of any color, let alone blue.
This won't slide off my skin.
for D.K.
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