My neighbors collect babies and
I envy them their cornucopia of giggles.
They have had their eye on my storehouse of sleep for months,
and if I didn’t need it like blood I would arrange a trade.
My pill plant is growing chubby little tablets
dry as math.
Harvest day is here.
I was busy being a bird,
birding with ease on a Wednesday
with only a cloud watching –
the currents too busy grinding
to notice my loop de loop
The moon is bored.
This is a place where things have not happened
in a very long time.
Ash shifts in the wind.
A stone almost tilts.
And yet that shadow has an arm –
and a match
Beneath the whitest pearl sky
the scent of pink lemonade wafts.
The sun is glass.
Fields trimmed in lace.
Hoards of human paraphernalia
burning, under the magnifying glass.
It’s the life of white to destroy in gentle tides.
The bitter angels in us,
the blacker angels outside.
My blood pearls. A necklace to wear.
My spirit in my high heels. Give me a scotch.
Give me talcum powder.
Embalm the fog that veils my name.
Lady Lazarus is inconsiderate,
I’m the jacket I wear when I’m cold,
my body the lampshade
through which my power dims.
Heart half eaten,
a delicacy like mitten snow.
Why are there no bridges through the white?
bridges of scarves
of salacious science?
It is science that brings me a piece of me
in a syringe, in a capsule.
Oh, thank you, Science!
Sunken souls mourn anchors
that brawl beneath the brink.