Monday, October 26, 2009


Favorite me, Mom, somersault
sweating your pockets. Whistle your lit skin
sugar in figure eights a rainbow of skittles
of blue and pink. Your soul wants to burn
down the lower staircase you split on a bedding
throat. How we eat with no lips
of light by the fur of your edges drapes
my wanting to be a mother.
When you think, silver had to thaw
flesh so awkward comes to mind
when ducks are underwater: A pause
in the universe's cold. We don't see
where the wild fours grow a chrysalis,
your bare pieces flushed
of Venetian blind on the painted wall
above the cubing jewel of the shadow
body fraught, thirsty and searching
for a clock. The disordered
bones of night cough up
a yellow spotted frog, rubbered,
that my face transforms. How have I become
a block of street forgiven.