Yesterday, the final petal curled its soft lure into bone.

The flowerhead shed clean, I gathered up your spine

and built you on a dark day. You are still missing

some parts. Each morning, I curl red psalms into the shells

in your chest. I have buried each slow light: cardinal’s yolk, live seawater,

my trenza, a piece of my son’s umbilical cord, and still you don’t return.

A failure fragrant as magic. Ascend the spirit into the design. 

My particular chiron: the record that your perfect feet ever graced

this earth. Homing signal adrift among stars, our tender impossible longing. 

What have I made of your sacrifice. This bone: it is myself.

Portrait of Atlantis as a Broken Home

              I swim down to 
              look for our four-
              chambered house.
                            The window
              in our room still leaf-
              darkened, its bruiselight
              charged with fault. 

Am I very lonely? 

             I age in reverse until I am as
             small as my child
             body, my chest swollen
             with bright longing

             that the walls will not always
             greet each other 
                           in collapse—

The lord is kind.

             The underworld is lit by half
                          -moon as if to say, none
                          of this is evidence,
                          only decay.

             In the drift, this wreck still looks like a life:
             everything still hanging is relieved
             of its weight like an archer’s arrow
                           suspended in rags 
                           of snow.
             I hunt the me
             that made this heavenless night,

             my young fear circling your
             false beacon, its low
             stars and difficult earth stacked
             immense against
             every fact—

I should be funnier here:

                            Underwater, iron sinks

                                                                            weightless as       

               a kite 

                                     plummeting 

                      through peaks.

I Was a Good Wife

for helios, not yet a collapsed star

and an even better
wolf, jawed to a thicket of lonely
lungs trees I mean breathing, comet
come to me, come
a lone light, like the fire
that rips the mountainside’s
dress, I was a good
ununderstood, a wrist
of bent light, undressing
alone an even quieter violence. I am
remembering how to want
my life, how to want to come
even closer to the wolf I was
you wanted this to be about borders

it is

Related Poems

Corpse Flower, Luna Moth

     The deep wine
of it risen tall above
           the buried
	    corm,

     its ornamental
spathe furrowed thought-
           fully, to human
	     warmth.

     O un-branched
 inflouresence, amorpho-
           phalos, misshapen
  	     swelling,

     with its allure
of rotting flesh
           for the scarabs
	     to follow,

     hollow, to the sun-lit
trove, as though all
           dark were light
	     unbidden

    by our parsing
eye, and love itself
           hidden inside
      the word.

     Call it life
enrapt with death’s
           blight, blooming
                   briefly.


~


      Emergent morning
in the sweet gum triggering
            green, green
                   its wings

       fanning translucent 
below the porch light—angelic,
	a palm of light 
	       opening.

       Hallowed, hatched
each instar inches undercover,
	a spent thing
	       climbing

        larval, alluvial,
out of every cycle’s shelf-
	life, its rife
       	       unknowing,

        to become this end—
brief birth flying, flown, thrown
  	at midnight into
	       beginning.

        Mouth-less, it appears 
something bidden out of the dark,
	out of the broadleaf,
	        unmoving,

         to say something
wordlessly—the word we too
	can neither speak
	        nor sing.