The Man I Love Is Dying

Still and long on the couch
he looks about one hundred pounds
and says, I struggled to trust others but
all along, ha ha
my body was the one

I wait until you're sleeping
to bite the blankets
in the back bedroom
mad, and manic and then
stopping to listen --
are you still breathing?

I remember my head
flicking away right
before coming, I said by accident
I want to have your babies

It's why I've been begging you
since we started making love
to use me
kindly, you said,
I want to give it to you

You see
that I am a round house
to pass through blood and
a skull still soft inside me

the canal a hallway leading
to a back bedroom
where I can't even cry,
with your ugly way of wilting

You cannot control
what happens to your come
or how to save
those witnesses to our life

And death expels the arches in thought
jettisoned like spunk.


My first friends
were old and animal.
I approached them in braids,
or thick tufts madly stuck
to salted nape.

After a bath,
I’d argue with my father
on the most inane things,
I’d say I’ll never kill
any living thing

my tongue repudiate
in flame from shy eyes, every time
he would end it and say,
you are truly kind, my girl,
and holier than me.

At night, hitting the dog
because he wouldn’t come or stay.
Breathing hard, pushing figurines
under water, cutting into my horse’s face.

Nothing does change,
the seahorse holds
the field of carefully collected refrains
and all things turned
upside-down are embryos in some way.

Hearing us, my mother’s lips
would limp together and curl up,
you haven’t had a baby yet, just wait
to tell me you wouldn’t kill.

I wait for June to come, but
she’s right, I know I will.

The Concept of Mating Came to a Mallard

It will be like a moth slapping up a window
to which days pass by
and the carcass is crisp on the floor

If you want to know
in what ways sex is a concert
put your ear to a shrub full of birds
where organs touch that don’t want
to touch each other
unless they are told.

Like men ducks follow the pussy of the duck
until she is done, exhibiting the bedroom inside of her.

This is a strategy, exhibited
in the hump of a word
like menarche
is formally charged;
an explicit and natural
transference of current.

As electricity was once
considered by Congress to have been
conducted by spirits,
pity on those who
fear the conduit.

Getting Pregnant

I have thought myself a furious hedge
of contorted bones with a contradictory
crosshatch of soft leaves in a supple,
generous green

which live to balance a thick slug
that sucks along my palms
or perhaps like
a nearly weightless bee,
which tickles in passing.
I want to be like that: tender
in my head

a revelation
by nature is not seen

there, I see him
he sticks his head out
from the garden, it’s warm
and shallow
 he says,
there’s nothing else to say
it’s that good, it isn’t
a complaint, it’s god
I guess

my husband
does it again, walking through doors,
a specialty and
with a curious look, spying through
the hedge into my living room,
it was effortless getting pregnant

with his miraculous
walks through wood and frame

Courtesy:  Brigette Bloom

Courtesy: Brigette Bloom

Judith Listens

Her sureness is in her jaws,
she says there’s angles in everything
and simply wears them on her face

she turns away, feeling annoyed
by the smothering eyes of Christ

and likes cutting prefixes off to see what’s left
she knows words because she knows men

and gets happy
admiring big tusks on those extinct
sons of bitches

women who have been asked to hold
their harpoon tongues will answer to judith
admonished by mothers and grandmothers

with her head cocked to the side,
she sometimes hears water pouring when there’s none
so you know
she has been in love

well, she says,
you teach a woman to stay inside
and are surprised to come home and find her
painting crazed patterns in damp corners

hunger always knows another way to hunt,
the rose can grow in shade, can it not?