Pretty Tripwire

Supplication

This time, empty, unnourished, unnourishable, you will enter the arctic

room of the skull,

its two large windows, asbestos walls, its sea

of icy shards cascading,

this time enter

though the fish carcass with its stunned mouth

is riding the hard heavy waves

as if alive.

Small indispensable mouth of fate.

This time enter with the slow care you learned

from stroking a dog’s bony head, his immolated eyes

taking you in,

this time

with awareness that damage has been done to your mind, has been

done to you—

and this sea is a shattering, unlike glass, more like Flower shattering,

so quiet the remnants, the ruin, you yourself couldn’t hear, didn’t know

exactly anything, the transaction, the event, a dreamy underfog.

This time kneel

in the currents, curling waves of cold petals, the familiar edges

serrated, stranger-ed, more cutting

than you remember.

The pieces might never have been whole, taken shape, never been yours.

This time let the petals fatten on your tongue,

ease down your throat—

let them form a new organ,

something like the extra heart you needed

to love yourself someone said so long ago it has become a dream.

Guarded

"Little birds little urgencies darkly clerical

carry your notes to the child

practicing her quiet in a forest

far from the unfinished house

assigned her

fly through that bluish

disassembling air

past bewildered ivy chimes snagged

in their hanging-strings

confusion of voices and peals the sun wilting

from its own heat

sing another

arrangement"

Thinning

The girl was born with one

watchful eye

that could keep the village safe.

It was her sole purpose.

The eye witnessed a mother

sliding under

ice, her children

three small stumps

frozen on the river’s edge,

the father slumped in shadows,

a rope around his neck.

What good was all that seeing

when she had no way

to tell it? Look at her eye now—

bitter, furious flower

infested by bees & flies.

Look at it

looking away.

For the fast I purchased three quarts

of juice. I’d be thin as a ruse.

A week of nothing

but Orange/Apple/Prune.

My system would be

clean. O gleaming discipline.

The scanter I became,

the greedier I got

for less.

Allotment: one square

of light & a half-crust & grapeskin

for vitamins

Is that enough to leave a trail, to get back?

sufficient to keep me

walking to the room

where the scale waited

I could live on a bead—

shiny or dull—

and not collapse

Let the empty swings sway

Let streetlights dim

Let the wind and mousy-haired rain and even the sun eat away at me

That large rectangular restaurant window,

steam in the glass, wide tables,

grandmother & grandfather

from distant mesas and buttes sitting with me

eating as though we’d just seen a ballet.

It was cold enough to be Christmas.

The spruce & scarlet globes hanging

& everything shimmering. My grandmother looking

directly at me. She’s thin. My grandfather glancing up.

Strewn between us: handfuls of shatter & tinsel & tin

& meat & things I would never eat—

It was there they gutted earth

to lay two black tracks that couldn’t touch.

There, the train. There, my seat by the window

where I sat on a real square of light—

tissue-sized. I felt my bones clear

as an X-ray, their starry knobs, the hard

weft and slope. With the first jolt

of the car, they thrummed.

Half my weight dropped, loose

flesh lost, I was getting close to the marrow,

claiming my landscape—

the spectacular hill-bone of my wrist rising

as I turned in my ticket, my knee bulging

larger than my thigh.

The train lurched, its one yellow eye

fixed north where my mother waited

and would, for the first time, see me as I was.

Not eating was a sign