At night:
above the town moon a candle over a map lit, the streets,
animal pounding woods-shape stick cut for the center you smell
her so I trail you
from above fire where the blade meant-for I am going to have
her hear me
carnelian bead up inside she knows not & grow it there a sickness
have you out
to have you back
At night, the dark has a sound:
of light slipping back, of becoming absent before you; your hands are
too small to catch it-sound of the step & of the slip; though the way
it lands you can hold it, in its name, the whole of it in your
fingers: move.
At night, the dead:
the dead are sitting up in their narrow huts. At night they moan & try
to uncross their legs. In the day they pretend they chose this
position.
The dead have different problems-salt spills & they are blocked from
the water; the bell is found & someone pulls the string.
In the dark the string is dark thread & in the day, light. In the dark
a line of salt is a string & also in the light.
At night we salt the dead to staunch the moan. I hear the string. Stop
listening.
About the author:
My poems have appeared in Glitterpony, elimae, & Thirteen Myna Birds & are forthcoming from Anti, Mud Luscious & Robot Melon. I also have a chapbook coming soon from Scantly Clad Press.
I received my MFA from the University of Arizona where I was a poetry editor at the Sonora Review. I now live the writing life in Portland, OR.
