and a tenderness swept over my skin for the man
who knew my thighs, all fathappy, in younger years.

We were good, ya know, sometimes.
And here he was oblivious to my observation—

for a swift, floating moment—we were alone again:
me watching, he not noticing. The thing

we once had, sinewtorn by vultures, briefly
parted the clouds. He sat in the sun.

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and bring wax. I’ve used all of mine even
fogged holiday candles. I’ve burnt

a string run through hard fat from my bacon.
Please. Or I’ll be forced to rob bees at knifepoint

and politely collect their products for months.
Please bring a crystal ball. I asked around

but no-body carries anything round in their palms
or chest since you’ve gone. Please bring pictures

of your mother and sisters, there aren’t enough
here to render or read or eat from. Bring my voice

asking at an older age or any sound you decide.
But bring a watch and paper and map it out. Pass over

like a comet or pass through like a note between fingers.
Just bring any oranges and your compass. You never owned one

but please bring one and name it, make it your own.
I have to insist you bring your hours

and your purse and hand-foods
and your perfume
and your
and you
and

That moment before grief destroys us,
We sit eating the sweetest melon,
Not knowing the sweetness until
Much later, when the first grade
Is empty-eyed, everyone
Alone now as we are overtaken
Without knowing it yet,
Thinking this cannot be

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Before you opened the bag, Sex
could’ve been something sleek, a jaguar or puma,
but it turned out to be a scraggly orange cat

who leaves messes and claws at strangers
and yowls for attention all through the night.
Spend enough time with Sex and you

no longer hope it’ll fix anything;
it’s just another problem stalking
through the house, hissing at your friends.

There’s no peace if you don’t feed it
and the more you feed it, the bigger
and meaner it gets; you try to stuff it back

in the bag but the bag is too small and the cat
is too big and it hates you. This is the story
of everything you’ve wanted: inside each bag

another cat, be it Love or Art or Purpose—
they mewl their demands, bite each other,
and scratch your feet; they leave you

many brightly colored birds, lifeless and matted
on the living room floor: offerings
or threats, you can’t be sure.

36 feet of earth risen from the ground.
Sometimes the earth itself
raises a hand in prayer.
Sand spilling down its face, the hill
across the blacktop from our cheap apartment
sang invitation. Sang freedom. So
we ran, clambered up its almost impossible
angle until we stood
perched atop a lip of dirt as thin
and crisp as light. The wind in our hair.
A choir of insect leg sirens titillating
the open space below us.
Nothing between us and the ground
but sand as fine as a beach arc,
just enough to catch a body in motion.
We ran over and over into nothing.
Filled the sky with our fall,

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I want to find the porch
of the poem. I think
if I could just stand there
with one fist pressed hard
against the ache at the base
of my spine, if I could stare off
toward the sea of neighboring mountaintops
whose clouds threaten to make
common cause with my own darknesses –
then I could turn and pass over
the threshold, entering deep within.
My mother warns me that the corners
of this rough room have overlooked spaces
where light never reaches. Having seen
the heart of the house already, time
after time unchanging, she thinks
it would be just as well
to rest on the porch and wait
for night to fall full upon you
because, after all, hunger and cold
will drive you inside soon enough,
where more work is still waiting
once you get past the scenery.

my child, you will ascend water.

it doesn’t matter what
your feet and bones are made of.

let go of the happy bullshit
and do the worm through this
life.

at your best, you are
a comical and clumsy creature—
and it is a mechanism of beauty.

you have permission to do what
you can to survive.

i’m going to let you in
on one of my holy observations:
people are better-off broke, and
running hot with want.

take it from me,
the depths, bread of life,
it doesn’t matter who you think
you are.

black ice is black ice until it isn’t;

i’ve been make-believe,
a gardener more than once,
betrayed for 30 pieces of silver
and prestige.

living in a body is only
groundwork.

sister, i invite you to blunder
your heart out for goodness’ sake,

you are the glue that holds Father;
not the other way around.

there is only evidence
of Father in this tangible world—
how ghostlike he is.

you and i, we die, make Father
important.

there is no meaning to route;
meaning is received in the organic
unfurling of a lifeline, total failure,
taking a good risk and adapting
to a mutation.

life is like that, a circle of knowing
and unknowing.

remember,
the three blind men and elephant—

i ask you: what the hell are you
holding on to?

i, myself, am good
and done with performing miracles—
just clues and enigmas
from here on out.

will you blame me?

here is the book of Deuteronomy
to aid you when the devil shapeshifts.

remember, all of this is for you—

carry close every ethereal and smoky
thing i bestow.

here is a burning bush
for when all falls dark.

because,
in lesson, i turn my back on you.

Little by little, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge
gives itself back to ocean storms;
c o n c r e t e and s t e e l dust blue crabs
and oysters in the depths;
some people pay to be driven                    across,
shudder in their own passenger seats.
There’s harder things to be scared of
than a bridge, like seahorses
or pine trees,
but then there’s reflections:
each wrinkle a desert road,
lost reception,
water gone;
shadows living in skin;
the body’s flaps and folds.

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wake into

your body

s’ soft ache

watch as the day

unhinges

its jaw

promises

to devour

this quiet want

how quickly

the light

empties

how small

the animal’s

cage

can you see

the darkness

gathering

a murmuration

of arrows

overhead