The Story

Tonight I will wrap the story
around me

a bandage
of wise ones'
words.

Stir-Fries

I make shit stir-fries
no matter how hard I try

Who do I think I'm kidding
when I chop things in the kitchen?

I am not
a real adult
at all.

(I stop the conversation mid-sentence to taste the stir-fry.
"Oh shit," I want to cry. "I've put too much sauce."
"I could have told you that from the first drizzle," he says gently.)

Shadow Sister

I had a shadow sister
stitched to my
side

We were eachother - we
were husband, bride, brother, mother
and any, every
other

(sounding-board, mirror, cushion
for a fall)

Then she pulled the stitches out
and replaced them with a
wall

Home, Drunk

Fall
by the bathroom

hear
an angel
call

and
love-washed
wishing

takes my
veins

Letter from Korea

My boy my boy
I await your coming like a
snowfall
a purifying shower
to cover the tracks
we've made
And all the while
you've stayed with
me
All the while of your absence
you've stayed

Where Did We Sit?

Where did we sit? You
and I, on the edge of it
all? Did we stay? Or stop? Or did we
fall off and into a void? A plot? Or the
sweet, stinging cot of another life? Were you my
husband? Was I your wife? Or your lover, at least? Did your
sun set west while mine rose east? Were we
chosen for here? Or rather, for there? Did we
ever sit together? And if so, where?

Dark Mother Virginia

Dark mother
called the others
for a little while

A few decades to
raise her voice

was all she needed
to be well heeded

before succumbing
to the humming
of her choice.

Wax-Off (I Gots the Post-Wax Blues)

On being born, I was awarded
a bed of fresh flesh, designed
to be worn from my head to
the meshy webbing of my toes, designed
to be naked sometimes (the shape
providing an allowance for clothes, but ultimately designed
to be hairy so there would be no real need for those).

Adorned, so, I grew, proceeding
to grow from squishy babe to semi-calloused youth to
crepey crow, and in the interim, I weeded
every second helpful hair from where it was needed (here,
there and underwear) so others would be misleaded into thinking
my most sacred temple (hirsute, lined
and dimpled), my most precious place (legs, arms,
inner thighs, chest, face) my most holy house
was no different to the vessel of a baby
mouse.

It's Almost Night

and yet the buildings are still turning their faces
towards some light
Necks stretched
On tiptoes
Arching over each others' heads
to catch some final blaze

And so the buildings stare, their
eyes glazed
Reverie rippling through their
flickering spines
Door-mouths agape in structural sighs
('What is this mist of energy?')

The Electric
confounded
by the
Heavenly