House of Sorrow, Vessel of Anarchy
Once I made a box to put a man in.
I hung photographs of Earth from space
and galaxies birthing planets.
I cut a window on a garden that drew songbirds.
I looked around, and it was good.
I picked the man up with tweezers, dropped him in.
He rolled off the bed and spilled onto the rug.
Words fell from him; he failed to gather them.
He tried the locks; they would not open.
His cell phone fell and cracked.
I swallowed a shrinking pill and parachuted in.
Small pearls welled in his eyes
for me to wipe away. Lie down beside me,
I offered; the bed was narrow.
A cello touched us skin to skin.
I Will Not Name It Except to Say
that this has happened, is happening
We read each other as lines slip down the page
More than the cardinal’s call
is how she flicks her tail
We have owned little, loved much
We made our hearts a heart with many rooms
We read, we write, we do language
That is how, a mentor tells me, civilizations heal
Daylily pollen seduces by the door
Our children shall feast on the property of heaven
My hands worked clay to fashion a golem.
Truth, said my hands, and painted the word on his forehead.
Breathe, said my hands, and he breathed.
Speak, said my hands, and he spoke.
Why, said my hands. Error, error, he stammered.
Where, asked my hands. In the loins, he answered.
Hands, said my hands. He raised his hands.
Hands, said my hands. He showed his long fingers.
Fortissimo! Piano! my hands said. He shouted. He whispered.
Die, said my hands, erasing one letter. He shriveled and curled.
Nesting, he wept, in your shoulder.