First loves in the sun

Watering my rotting garden when
A single hand-sewn patch of sunlight
Washed over me with joy

*

Oh to be a single particle
Of pollen up in the air
Middle-school children laughing tearing
Grass apart I didn’t know you’d die
I just kept ripping the grass apart
(Of me won’t dry out)
And poured it all on your hair
Bitter tea

*

I never ate my sorrows like I did with yours

A funny story that horrifies

how old were you when you first turned
to stone? your eyes made up
of snow-white goo
and strangeness dripping off your sex?
how old were you when reflections
suddenly didn’t matter anymore, when every quartz
and amethyst and pebbles at the sea
came in, whispered,
« it’s alright, it’s alright »?
how old?

As ladies of the past…

as ladies of the past
took flight in the mistaken mind
I lay my arm on the warm stone
it’s March, like a fresh fall
of light, the leaves
the not-yet leaves
leave a bitter odor in the air –
once upon a time a boy gave me
a branch of pink flowers he broke from a tree
as I walked home from school –
and at the time I didn’t know
anything but the lady of the hill
(I should have given offerings
to bribe her mercy) I didn’t know
and put the branch in a glass of water –
blueberries stained our summer fingers
with nails as black as the plague
for spring is diseased
and, stillborn, will choke us soon.

Kindergarten

Oh the crystals broke
In my chamber of wood; no shard
Is left for me to nurse
Til blood greets me – I put my hand
Under running water, no shard
To put blood out of its torpor
To pour it like coffee
On the sink’s teacup –
Oh the crystals broke
My broom’s delight
To gather it
Whole still intact still somehow destroyed
Oh the crystals broke

A poem that waited five years to be written

as one climbs cranes…
not to reach the controls, muscles
bent and high on caffeine –
as one reaches the highest point of the machine
with its war paints of red and white
and much to the surprise of its husband
and son, the machinist
as one climbs cranes…
maybe, up there
the sunset
will last a little longer; maybe
the streetlights won’t light up your way…
as one climbs cranes…

Radio

goodnight, listeners

to you, driving alone across the fields

it’s 3am, a fresh new

Wednesday just began – and you,

lovestruck teen, who cannot sleep

(looking at the stars

like they do in the movies)

and you, mother of two

with a mewling baby in your arms

goodnight, the sun

is all the way through the planet

and the wheat is growing nicely

goodnight, listeners

I’ll let you wander alone in all that cold

while citizens sleep

and cats awake

goodnight, listeners

take music as your last rites

smooth your wrinkles

comb your whitening hair

goodnight, listeners

goodnight.

Story of a street

My street for sure
Got strange castles
One made from ice
(So you can lick
The walls, water
Crawling up your sleeves)
One made from sand
(Itchy, it makes you blind
And scratches your eyes)
One made from snow
(You can’t see through
Its frost windows)
But the most pleasurable place
For sure is ours
Smelling like fish
And cabbage soup
Regular walls
Regular beds
We’ve got a cat
That meows through walls
As if seeing
The Great Corals…

Ligne 7 gothic



An alarm goes off and you find a seat. It’s all perfectly suspended in a bubble of lightning – you sit down. Your stop is at the end of the line, the bait to your fishing rope of a life. The other seats, mostly deserted, seem like they’d rather be speaking. An alarm goes off. Quite odd, all of this, when you’re the only fish you gut (asphyxiation is much too cruel). You come closer. To wherever.

An alarm goes off.