Monday, October 26, 2009

some favorites

a block of street forgotten

who is this person I have become

my face transforms a beast

throat coughing up a yellow spotted frog, rubbery

like a fringed clock. The disordered bones of night

fraught, thin, thirsty and searching

about the cubed jewel of the shadow

of the Venetian blind on the painted wall

your bare necessary pieces flushed of body.

Where the wild fours grow is a chrysalis

a pause in the universe's cold. We don't see

the wind when ducks are underwater.

Flesh shouldn't be so awkward. That comes to mind

when you think of silver. She had to thaw

if she wanted to be a mother. The mother

of light by the fur of her edges, the drape

of her throat. How she eats with no lips

down the lower staircase she speaks on a bed

of blue and pink. Your soul wants to burn

sugar in figure eights a rainbow of skittles

sweating your pockets. Whistle your lit skin

at me, Mom. Somersault.