By Mark Bibbins Mark Bibbins
My throat is full of sparklers
                                                    making me a lighthouse
                                 for a loveship       that can fly

Our mother monarchy
                                 sweet land paternity

I’ll eat their offspring’s money       and let you have a bite

In wilder colors       I can love the copy of  you
                                 which is great            when we have breasts

He will breathe through contractions
           and she will heal the faceless
                                 and use her eyes       to steel his legs

You must see that I’m eating for two sexes

Minimalism means       nothing making more
                                               of  what isn’t there

           a green preconception
             divining a baby gender
                                   for which I qualified
           with braids ablaze       and stuck to my back

We are going to win       then make extra babies
           yes we make enough
               to make a country

Text unto the winged baby       the tiny pill of  mystery
                               that makes me want to tickle the world
           until it starts barfing clouds

Make it free       is not the advice we paid for
           but a long song about the flavor of nowhere

                                                   and how we never fill it
           and how I shave my buzzardy wings       to offend the sublime

While I’m quick to swallow       the heaviest business
                      and quicker yet to modify that trash
       you have a poultice       for sudden holes

                      you have a knife in ten minutes
           you will marry a parent       and make it do
                                   whatever you tell it

The raptor you were       does an end-run around sorrow
                      but I’m right here sweetness

                      out of  the glass closet                voilà
               voilà        so what do you make of my baby

Tonight we bomb
Tonight we blitz
Tonight we barrage
Tonight we make the greater migration
Tonight our fabulous flock shits napalm on the criminal dads

For I am a figure       first of girls in orbit

               the best reason I have to eat your bed

I am spangled breasts       I am shaved
                       like any birdboy       only huger
                than babies or ladybugs

                       one of each is precious
                       a million a menace

My inside is a live mine
         and I’m after the light that sustains the skin of  women
                     scooping the spectacle
         where everyone freaks everyone

They will say how do you do Mister Ms. Thunderbride
                 and I will say I do it distorted

                             and you       will marry a million of  you
                                                              in your twisted gown of  flames

Source: Poetry (October 2013).


This poem originally appeared in the October 2013 issue of Poetry magazine

October 2013


Mark Bibbins is the author of Sky Lounge, a collection of poems. He teaches writing at The New School, where he also co-founded LIT magazine. He lives in New York City.

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Poems by Mark Bibbins

Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, War & Conflict

Poetic Terms Free Verse

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