REAL What frightens me Is the sleep that Slurps at my insides – Sucks my eyes back Into my head. I lie cheek-to-pillow, Blinking, Thinking fiercely – Anything to keep my Fists from going slack Along the sheets. And when the world goes black I dream that sprites Tie fishing line Around my Wrists and elbows. They pull and dip And work my hands at stitching Up and down a yawning slit. Effortless. I fortify the seam. They mistake me for their puppet, And I, assuming nightmares, Mistake them for my dream.
CHIAROSCURO I pushed aside the winter potatoes in the cellar, Hurled earth and sawdust up against the walls, Trying to cover everything Staring back at me -- dead things Rolling over, eyes Seeking the sky. The roots Glowing like ghosts in the heavy air Were almost company. Voices, melodies, The thonk of bootsoles echoed there, Lingered in the dryness. The crickets' song From summers ago; night after endless Night could not erase it. I gripped the sides Of the ladder with both hands, And – the gathering phantoms below me in the dust – I began to climb.
IDOL It all began with you, you know. Your echoed greeting in the dim garage, Your eye through a camera lens. "This is my best friend," she introduced you. And now I introduce you with the same easy sentence. You're much taller than you were then, And I am much more disillusioned. Eight long years trail out behind us, specked with good and bad poetry. And when I publish my first book, I will dedicate it to you, "For the one who made me and broke me, For the one who is second only to God."
WHEN I WAS SAD If he had been me I would have smoothed his hair, And said, "You are strong – don't ever forget that." Because I understand that A three-legged dog finds No comfort in a kick, And that, if it does make A tough spot on his ribs – Where the pain is not felt so keenly – He will love his master, But he will snarl at boots.
PHYSICAL What creature – what goddess Might I be if I could Shake this body off? Taller than a flagpole, With a tiny head and gargantuan feet – Spreading my arms wide over everything. I would tower like a redwood, I would be a part of Polar bears lounging on ice, Of steaming rice in a Chinese restaurant. I would sing without my throat, And the dogs would sit up and begin to bark.
FAVOR Somebody shoot me. Take this mad cap off my head. It's too tight, and that Old, Chinese lady in designer jeans Keeps looking at me funny. Take my picture. I'm posing for you – You can finish my grape sucker later, Just point and click. Vogue, vogue, vogue. Hey, I'm talking to you. Ven aqui, muchachito. You're dressed all in yellow. Close my eyes for me, will you? After I'm gone.
MADWOMAN Pain soothes me sometimes. Sometimes, when I forget what it's like to feel Until someone goes and lops my head off for me. I like to put my fingers on my throat – Test the veins a bit – so delicate. And all my veins are blue. They show through my skin all over the place: The insides of my arms, my chest, my hips. I think about all that blue blood inside, Moving along all innocent like, Because blue isn't sinister at all, And neither is pain when it's real. When it makes me take in a sharp breath or two.
FEVER DREAMS That's where I meet the blue angel. In a world where black-lipped Babies smile at me And creatures cling to the fat Of my arms, feeding with fury. I turn to see a great, teetering stack Of canary cages, threatening to fall, And behind them is my angel, In a green half-light, showing his teeth. "My, how fresh you look," he says to me. And there are gaping circles under My eyes, and the eating things Are still nibbling around my elbows, And I know he is a liar. But under his gaze I can feel no pain. The knowledge of his sarcasm is like Someone else's knowledge – someone Far, far away in bed, and sleeping hard. I don't mind his wings wrapped around me. Even as I suffocate I am smug. I gloat with childish pleasure At the beauty of it all – me, with Blue-dusted feathers tickling my thighs. It reeks of an old chicken coop In there, but my eyes are closed. I pretend my angel smells like mint leaves, The kind that grow outside my window. He sweats and says, "I'm almost through."
FUTURE I will not be his only wife, But what will it matter? With him my heart won't need to beat. He will love no one, but have many lovers. If my body gives him pleasure, He may have it. It will no longer serve me. Perhaps I will fear him, but More likely I will only feel A cool wind when he passes me. And he will pass me often – On his way to hold court with other gods, On his way to think about himself.
IN THE EVENING It starts, and the voice in my head whistles with it. All my fears hum like sirens. I've never been able to clap my hands on the truth, nor catch a firefly between my two palms in the damp heat of twilight, the red sun sinking low over the Mississippi. But I love to watch them; how they appear and disappear, until the grasses are alive, full of tiny specters, only becoming common with the rising sun. The fireflies have gone. But my fear sits with me, cross-legged on the lawn.
DRIVING THROUGH IDAHO Did you know, back then, That I wanted you? The farmlands slip by Outside my window. The clouds in the darkening sky Are gathering, slow And sure. The men Are absent from the fields. They have the flu. Black and white babies cry Because they weren't born in spring – Before the light They felt the cold. Before the shade of night Falls down I dream of growing old, But I'm still here. I wonder why My throat's too dull to sing.
BELOW THE BASIN The sun disappears, leaving silver On the horizon. Beneath the baobab tree The grass spears are dripping diamond Of a different kind. Three Monkeys on a Low-hung branch bent Halfway to the frozen green Are dreaming of Luanda, Where the cold – a stranger to this continent – Has not yet been.
I LOVE GOATS I love goats. I love thick, retarded boys who kiss my hand. I want to be a vegan and I want to like swimming with boys who dunk my head. I want to be someone who is not me, who wouldn't even like me, who would kill me if she saw me. And I love goats – I love To cradle their heads in my hands While they sleep.
AS DALI IS TO PAINTING At the railing I stood for a matter of years, Leaning over, swayed by the dream Of a freedom blue with ocean, Until my own tail caught up with me And my Muse yelled for me to jump. "Don't look down, Liza," she called, And I called back that I had no trouble with heights. "No time for lies," she said, and shoved Me from behind, between the shoulder blades, Over the steel rim. Since I was falling anyway, I curved my toes And became the point of the arrow of gravity – Diving below the indifferent clouds that mark The boundary between an idea and a poem, soft with rain. I whirred past cuckoo clocks, open umbrellas, martini glasses, to the warm Whoosh of water where sentences swim with the fishes. What could I do but join them? The milkmen, the doctors, and those petite gardeners Who would look at me from the corners of their eyes As I breast-stroked my way through the rhymes On the strength of that long fall.