1.

Propped against a tree on a sidewalk next 

to the trash cans, shorn of sheets, its fabric 

a casing for its coils, harborer of secretions 

seeped and dried, its phosphorous surface 

glitters abandoned skin flakes in moonlight, 

shingles from roof sides of humans. Mucous

trails pearlescent from a snail crawled up

the trunk of the tree upon which this bed 

formerly slept on now leans. Loved upon?

Perhaps. Dreamt on most definitely. Hands

on skin most definitely, the stains it harbors

are the trails of dreams, the shotguns aimed

at baby carriages, molars boring holes into 

the palm upon which they are cast like dice,

and the mystery of love as scratchy and fine

smelling as the needle tree that carried you

off with its scent of resin: it’s a hideous thing.

2.

Sheet marks on the face won’t disappear into

the water filling the basin. Under the eyes dark 

lakes before the resinous reflection of window

cast into mirror by interior lights set against

the night. Do you wonder if I dream of your 

shattering? Marks on the face don’t melt into 

the water. It would be strange to dream that 

hard for a stranger, even for you who became 

strange within an hour. Yet, I am waking from 

the press of your face against my face. Carried 

off over the shoulder, hauled through doorways, 

receiving your murder, once this mattress was 

bent at its middle, sagged profuse as a gaping 

blouse, and bore stains of which I was never 

aware while asleep. You knew. You were there 

too. You will dream of congress between us. 

I withdraw my hand. I refuse. Haul me away.

To be in any form, what is that?
(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,)
If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were enough.

Mine is no callous shell,
I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop,
They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me.

I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to some one else’s is about as much as I can stand.

translated by Tracy K. Smith and Changtai Bi

My eye laps at you in lamplight
Like a white hot tongue. Longing

Draws back, then rises, tidal.

The curtain of my hair
Announces my breasts. Your lips:

A languid breeze. Like a miracle
We feast and feast and nothing is spent.

Let flesh attend to flesh, sex to sex.
O, dexterous gold watch of the universe

On which one minute can straddle
A hundred years.

^{The subject of lesbianism is very ordinary […]
            — Judy Grahn}

in darkness of March’s midnight          she is eyes:
            moon rays rebound lake ripples to eggplant purple walls
your hands find her body         face lies upturned, opened
            smaller than weeks prior. She knows you prefer protruding hip bones,
feels hungered for by you,       not memory of the boy, her brother 
diaphragms guttural groan,      cold in body bag not on pleated comforter,
            you’ve described your favorite body your type as “heroin skinny” 
she knows you like the ripples of her torso but            before you knew her brother  
also concave trajectory to pelvis bones            as drug addict,
            loving you is an argument with the impossible.