Friday, July 27, 2012

Your mother’s allotment

came out of the mottled shadows between a garden and a path, wrapped firm in a night gown, squinting at the shiny afternoon, to meet us at its little wooden gate, saying...

don't let
these same brambles
grow up in the desolate spaces between you
with their spiny tangles
their thousand thrilling slights
And, Oh, their heady, heady fruit




Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Come, take my hand

Let me cede my tongue to your mouth
So that we can speak the body's exquisite argot

You say: there is hurt here still, quiescence,
there're children between us, and dishes to wash

But I come to you even before that time:
When you knew only the warm sun and bare feet on the streets—
when you were whole
With my loose shoulders and skinny legs
I come smiling and smiling to take your hand