The New Husband
At sundown bats flurry round the rooftops
like flustered angels. Blessing isn't easy.
As a child in the soup of the Gulf,
how the mouths of fish bumped along my shin.
The lingering of those slick forms at the skin's
like a grace, a border world tapping
that thing alone in the body. Tonight I see
it's solitude I've forgotten. Without it
the loneliness brims. The shipwreck sun dips
as the doors of the drab balconies open
like night blooms, and the bats sort their black-outs
of divine and diverge.
Whatever it is they do
they let it look like recklessness.
Lashing the dusk to the
of antennas trolling the
heavens, the bats veer
around the wire as if reeling in
pieces of cages. Jagged wounds retraced
all night, nearly touched, nearly crashed through to.
Tonight I'm raw as the twilight, craving
crash. Wholeness. Blunder of some
Son of Medea
Sunlight sang through the thick door's crack.
I heard her words,
yet chose not to wake my brother,
the one content to toss his ball
what they called me, wandering
the streets far as I was allowed,
then I would go
one more. Both mother and father,
but more mother, dark of eye, hand.
My face hers, they said.
Unworried, forgetful brother,
sleep on. Your death is dead. Mine spreads,
like spring clouds.
Mother/father, sky/field, wave/rock,
when will men see how unions are
proof of nothing, no link of life.
Small likeness, but hollow.
around the failure
to incarnate. Imaginings
agree with flesh. Father went.
How could we have
Invalid promises. He'd bring
toys: stuffed, golden lambs of wool-scrap
sewn to suck at love,
kiss-worn, stitch-lip feigning, teaching
what it is to love— fleece borne to
hearth fire. We're the scorch
dislodged bones, the joint dissolved.
Mother, Father survive, wither,
children, we live in death's black nut,
gardens at night. No ichor here.
I'm gift gown, burnt crown,
wrath's volume, passion's girth. Canyons
gut, a child of divorce,
a grave. But the clouds—
I waved arms I could not move. Wisps
of shaggy cirrus couched our craft.
As if drowsed, I strained
to admire the jade sun-dragons,
the approving blue of the sky,
to sit up, reach for
those splendid serpents! Mother's arm
cradled my small back; I could not
feel it there. Pretty,
feathery sun ram— yes, my death
was radiant— dazzling spiral
of horns, you came late.
Now I'm alone. The beguiling
symbols gone. I am no longer
damned as their love. Freed
from belief in what cannot be.
The Saint of Burning Down