poem, poetry, Uncategorized

SERAPH

to my room i go
old as sin i always hated that
nothing sinful about consequence
these arms, when tucked together, are frictive
stick to stick on stick, it’s like
WHOLLY WHOLLY WHOLLY
WHOLLY WHOLLY WHOLLY
IT IS BRIGHTER, HOTTER, AND BURNING
BECKONED AND FUSED IN THE ONE
no time to tell my daughter
just grip the sheet and burn
what else but bear down
set from within that wandering labor, of feeling full
through a tunnel behind my stomach, somehow
not her at all now, but me, and its coming,
a riptide sets the breath
orange and smoldering, away,
down, down a channel pinkness
caustic char sloughs to a tender ash, i’ll come when called,
WHOLLY WHOLLY WHOLLY
WHOLLY WHOLLY WHOLLY

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Uncategorized

blinded, for june comes through the shades

in fists fecund, closed
and short peach thumbs

a simple tug could pluck
in fact, i watch concerned

you blossomed on intense
and open face where winter hides behind

through whimpers in sudden rain
we stared, what seemed

miles across limpid inches
on the vesseled wrap of rose

eyes memorizing daughter-pink
petal soft nipples

your afternoons and nights,
that hungry way of yours

eager to make born, shining
hot against my breast

the generous stretch of days
find me forever in them, june

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Uncategorized

Uncome June

have you been
will you come
ecstasy, or yesterday
double helix or simple sign
or mirror holder

i spy you, child,
playing in a green wisp
in the cornea of the house cat
not what i expect, at all

precisely who i am not
makes the mother of me
through the daughter i was

who tears through me
her father’s love and
renders me sexless

through a front door, you come
a slender hex, in millions that father spends

who comes hot on heels through
the pastel future
i’m carrying child

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for june’s norwegian tongues

two tongues, and
one flown to a common head.
it’s obvious as a statue
of an old man in a park

then there sits the reject mouth
which cannot cry. is dumb, but not blind.
a small savant in catacomb,
that holds and drools, is temperamental to touch

don’t use the word father
to make it talk,
learn the difference between sap
from the saw cut and the drip
of a creature
submitting to need you.

the gums are the softened doorways,
and both are one, and right between,
the intuition bellow,
trust, for time won’t hurt
the sacred things

see all around you,
obelisk, pillar, peak,
but it is the well we reflect on to know
we are anything at all.

but it is the cave which holds scrawls,
and the mist which feeds its own meadow.

the reject mouth a cunning swallow that
thrives in the skull,
find one, you’ll find us all, june.

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