hair, curious
even my uterus is filled; the egg slid
to a current, and caught tenderly
couched to a bed of cilium
which waves and falls, shedding down
the breasts a kind of anemone
and each night, coming out
the bird takes locks to nest
there is no identity, there is
only correspondence with adaptation


someday, june will bear spores

it’s a cow-head thing in drawings but,
in pictures it looks like any organ
a red sack and tubes that glimmer wet under light

connected to one thing, or another
a part of something else; alone, nothing at all
is there something to it?

when this bag fills and bursts…
i’ve been there. i forget to yell, so angry at my mother, but,
the good screams come from you

sometimes we are afraid there’s
not enough to go around
what about if there’s no more ______ ?
what would all this be like without your sound?

take it from me
june, that’s what i learned the woman’s cry is

an inside a mother’s fear: do you pity me for doing it? 


dimorphous expressions

checking out
the stain and now
mom says
it’s over

you don’t believe it:
that’s night. its radiance
makes potentate
no, i’m rather
filling out with weapon
and spilling over with new smell

which, begging,
snuffs at the hemline
of velveteen and its
got winning
set into the deep cleft
of its very clay

you loom spiderous
floating down the walls
of your corner room
the primed corpuscule

who twists skin crust
into its own gilded mucous
shining in its very contrast

grazing at the ceiling
and touching more with words
oh, it is good



Slumped over the back of a horse
great knots in a tourniquet of hair at twelve years old
the cupid arrow hilt to mother and foal
willing to be bitten and pass the feelings course

Dragging the slit an incredible feat of inches
through pastel effigies on the underwear grown
with stains of burned blood resembling lone
figures trudging through ditches

Or a noble’s distorted portrait
though mother scrubs at the still persistent shadow
his crusted nose to the coral summit
as daughter rubs along the guest room pillow

A discontented starling flits one eye at a time
to get the picture whole, to be given mine


mirror the massive, bulbous heads
effusively spewed
on dark folds, wet and
propelled careless by a twitching wag
kicking out eager, yet surrenderous,
in an epiphany of a half-lewd performance

jumping from the double doors of airplanes
or shooting from the sharp crease of a rock
tying their necks to beams
and pushing knives deep
into other men

it was forgotten, long ago
swallowed all the while by lukewarm
sanguine walls which spasmed
in a contract,
to spit up them all but
one, or two, and the rest
fucked off
and perished
low in a toilet bowl
or became an orb on the bed sheet, dried out
and smothered breathless by their mother’s shifting ass
gargantuan in contrast
or, chewed on merciless
by the acid of her stomach

but…to fall from the metal bridge
by the cord, of course,
and shatter down on rocks below,
what a seductive force…

chance perhaps we own,
or, my god, worth looking over
to know the sensuous tug,
a helpless kind of selfish
precision in creation

child / parent

mother, father
they are a basket brimming with fruit

it fills me
feeling love for the first time
in father’s cool reserve
telling me already things i should not have heard

mother, the ember, slowly burning through the carpet
and no one is looking
see the orange, dying light
that is mother’s dull shine

“everyone their own patient
and own surgeon” ring around
your finger, my finger

consciousness came to us by fractions
and was made by the shatter
of voices who gathered tandem
the rules of form

so there are no bad poems and there
are only good poems

time to begin working; i am up
and pregnant in the morning
stepping strange and heavy
to the bathroom, eager
to get you here, angry
to finish this

for the child
who looks in the mirror
to hate me, sometimes
and slowly regains trust
in the deviant gods
who brought her here

that was us,
mother and father