Blood-gushered mountainside a brass parapegma of noon glares behind: gore of hides. Beasts all slain. Shadeless midday. Specterless differentiation. Glad day zodiacs augur. Awl of insight; hunters' blades. Actaeon: and the spirits of motion. Actaeon uttering:...
was, according to Virgil, always a fickle, unstable thing. Woman. Wyf. Merger of wife and man. To indicate: not-girl. Not-yet-claimed, not-yet weeping. And aren’t they often weeping? The mother, tearing her hair out, running toward the battle lines, filling heaven...
Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens and the sea takes on that desperate tone of dark that wives put on when all their love is done.
Over and back, the tangled thread falls slack, over and up and on; over and...
I know not what to do— My mind is reft. Is song's gift best? Is love's gift loveliest? I know not what to do, Now sleep has pressed Weight on your eyelids.
Shall I break your rest, Devouring, eager? Is love's gift best?— Nay, song's the loveliest. Yet, were you lost, What...
Over Skype, I try to document my mother’s bald-shaved youth—she has a surplus in truths, and science has proven what it had to prove: every helicopter-screech I dreamed of was my mother’s first. Rippling my dumb hand, I wake up in childhood’s crypt, where prayer...
Hunger like her mama
Most strong in White gaze as in
a Cowbird’s flirtation
Sprouted in eyes to tongues
to bellies pregnant with stolen milk
to restless hands
These fingernails filled with Black body,