WIP 9th Letter

The yellow letter
Number 9
I can’t fathom the more dangerous work.

In my dressing pocket,
It’s a yellow nine.

I get my pancakes with extra syrup
When my husband makes breakfast.

I understand the shape of my body.
It is large and unrestricted.
And to come upon desire
With a desire for hidden light
Is to make lemonade in sum.

Daffodil,
Cream,
Egg yolk,
1980s hotpants
All 9 of my colors are yellow.

One book is very simple,
Don’t take 90 years to decide.

Taking emotional plans,
Airplanes,
And you’ve gone over the edge with my name.

God

I walked down the road crying for milk.
I left a trace of ten behind me.

God as a musician.
God as a father.
God as a star.

I have no idea what fun is in my body.
Only dark memories of waking up yesterday
On the bank floor and covered with a foreign coin.

I chase a little,
Having more darkness in my right leg than my left.

Let the physics escape.

My milk went down warm.
I need a drink.

There are things that ordinary people don’t do,
But look.

WIP

My needs and desires grow
Like kudzu on you

Taking them from me is not stealing,
A label that disposes of bloodletting
To quiet its memories of such a beautiful heart.
You better not see it.

Nice need.
Silent seed.

Mitochondria

I have a huge mitochondria
Sitting on my desk.
It is not a model,
Just overgrown.

It likes chocolate bars.

My students,
Alive,
Watch the mitochondria
Squeeze and wriggle on the table.

I rub off my dead skin,
Ease it into the alien world
Of permanent energy,
And watch the lights dim.

Stalemate

Sick blue saxophones see the thermal inferno.

He has said “I will never lose the true facts.”

She has said, “I will never abandon my corners ”

Music drifts to hell.

Where will they go in the silence that follows?

Moon and Stars

Stars do not stoop before moons,
Only before an invisible God. Ringing the multiverse with fire.

Moons are delicate,
Sound like flutes as they spin.
Moons are sleepy debutantes
Over each devouring body.

Stars, arrogant,
Give each other more space
Than is wise.

Butter

Guiltless and capable,
The butter knife lounging on the counter.

Butter is soft and weak,
And hates her,
Uet through her dulling days
She never forgets butter.

Big Eye

Makeshift trees
Conceal the emptiness of space.
I am removed from nature’s skin
As crust from an eye.
Too often I have peered
Over my back fence for
A better view

No one should see that much
We are startled giants
With weak hearts

Space rolls over its
Grassy base
There is no room for
A thing that watches
Yet a big eye cleans
The back of the world
With lashes

Female

the globe gingerly turns
on an axis she would not
have picked for herself
if given the choice

she has a crush on the
black hole
that calls her sometimes

something about that
event horizon
feels so remarkably other

her identity is unknown to her
not even the sun will tell
her she is gifted