Burial

a sun slants, slopes

through skeletal trees

there is a bird in a box

with two broken wings

and one blue egg

crushed beneath

a child’s foot

bleeds

as sparrow screams

crow laughs

a dove shudders, dies

girl’s hands make nests

in soil, make graves

a wooden merry-go-round

marks this place

where every wild thing

is contained

in its cardboard casket

a small, youthful mourner

plucks weeds

for avifauna

buried beneath

a cross of clover

protecting

rare moments of peace

one shout breaks them

all dead, all gone

his voice, her rage:

a lone

bitter

dandelion mound

Home

all i wanted:

a fireplace

to stay warm

a car

for you to drive me

around in

a bag of dreams

that we would work on

one at a time

something i could

hold on to

at night

a flight of stairs

to lift us

off the ground

something living

to grow

and keep safe

 

all this

a blueprint

who will

survive it?

Circle

“I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times, in life after life, in age after age forever.”

-Rabindranath Tagore

—

oh

how your voice

small and scared

reminded me of her

curled up on the floor

with a monster

waiting

right outside the door

i was

all bravado

and child parts then

unable to protect her

from him

watching helplessly

as she rose

with all the things i loved

discarded on the ground

the joy and the hope

in its death throes

subdued forever

beneath her bare feet

so you should be told

that this sickness may be

written on my bones

sparked in my joints

triggered

by this

the thought of you

standing up

with only

half of yourself

left

and perhaps this disorder

is where it starts

perhaps we are

as lovers

born

from this filth

the roots of our illness

penetrating

the purest soil

as we

febrile and scarred

run from our past

only to find ourselves

lost

in its familiarity

 

we produce the most beauty

in the darkest corners

of our lives

 

i wanted to hold you

for this reason

and give you

a kiss, to summon strength

an embrace, to keep you together

and these words:

your heart

is not the disease

it’s the cure

Untitled

there is salt in my soil

it chokes the crops

so nothing grows in me

and i am left with naught

but barren land

rolling hills of dust and sand

see how they shift

as you approach

revealing the half-blossomed

bolls of cotton

stuck to my surface

on dry dirt

no longer fertile

beneath an orange sun

that reveals too much

all the blood of the earth

seeping

soaking, marking each child anew

so that even the mighty river

shrinks away in fear

as it rushes past