KINTSUGI after an aphasia
Her longest vowel flies in —
dark, because that is
also the taste of morning’s shade —
In her fractured bowl—
she is holding a small heart-beat.
Lit by an unspoken sun.
And she fills its dumb loss
with shine — and
stutters I will speak. I promise…
Not so shy a femme this morning, is she?
Missing words like a few broken teeth in
her smile, but braver — she will bow —
Light, says the armature of language.
Gold, whispers the mouth of someone else’s aria.
Leaf-fall and gold fill her breath with
sounds, its minute pieces. All over dawn.
~
Wednesday’s child is full of woe.
Thursday’s child has long to go.
Her own voice knew her, once.
Her own small fingers counting
wing-beats like a school-girl—one—two
—a thousand.
And one and tender hand — stroked —
And one minute . . . winged very near …
I promise, it whispered,
like a bird, lifting.
Yes, honey — a thin stream,
will come
for filling broken spaces.
Honey, promise.
I promise. I promise.
WE DID NOT MURDER ONE ANOTHER
It will be spring sometime, when the autumn dies, when the thaw melts. When the war ends. When the sun stays longer. Tiny baby penis buds will sprout on chill twigs and silhouetted branches. The dogwood will lean in a sudden gust. A man at his yet winter-stained window will see two vultures land and stand and part to opposite sides of the path and return and ritual, circle and stand, one will climb the other’s black tail and back and so forth. Man is uncertain how mating in public view translates to dignity and self respect in that kingdom. Man is uncertain if one day those two will murder one another. Man runs to his behavioral encyclopedia to find that the vulture symbolizes positivity, purification, rebirth, harmony, fortune, abundance, patience, and good luck, as well as doom and death. Vultures do their prance and dance and stand. Human returns to the window. Human beholds the hooded ones. It will be spring, sometime. War will end, sometime. The tiny buds will remain tiny and pink and still resemble tiny baby penises. Amazed? Clearly you’ve never been to a “Rainbow Gathering,” hippy tribes in the woods once upon. Not vultures. Wild n’ wooly hormone rich humans. Not killers. Not then. In my wanton try everything at least once youth, such right here in front of God and everyone was not so uncommon. I climbed and sexed with the garbage man, on a hill, in front of everyone. But it was summertime. Hundreds gathered and did what they/we did. In front o’ God and everyone. We did not murder one another. But that was not the year of wars. This is.
