I'm looking for the good robin of everlasting sewing. Easy as a bed to bed. And his words are mints. My shock in the ghost of the guest of my boyfriend. First there is the Father. He would not like me to tell you about him. He is punching holes right now. Saying petit, petit, petit. Garbled—he can seem like a balloon. Such a skin. A kingfisher. We are afraid to touch him. Like too many nights of touching ourselves. He might plan to take us on a picnic. We must be ready. We must be hungry. I finished my blue necklace. She tries to convince him because he was here on earth. Dad quits his job for the umpteenth time. I'm wicked lonely. We are in a department store. I buy him a blue bracelet because it is right there. And I would wear it. I buy it hoping he bought me something for Christmas. This is never true of course. We talk about religion. Of jasper things in trees. He wears an engagement ring. I am shivery, full of V-8. He drinks too much and cheats all the time. All of whom he left behind in the Bible belt are singing Yes, yes yes We put our hands over our face, our neck. We are overcome, saying, "No, no. I can't. I can't."
Yolanda: A Typhoon
How much our hands are God’s
to be running fingers over braille cities.
We are this hand pushed through our womb.
Weeping with each other’s blood in our eyes.
I dreamed that I slept with the light on.
I was asleep in my mother’s bed because my father was out to sea
and my claim on him was to feel the frets of my death sure to come.
Sweet, small fishing rod. Ears of wind rushing through many jellied trees.
We were on this cardboard earth with its puffing volcanoes
miniature baseball players and horrible winds
scored by musician’s hands.
Stand in the strong ear of this love.