Stunted Sestina Instigated by a Corroded Beloved

Today I’m punctual. Still bare in here. Across

the conference hall the mingling starts. Aware of Her,

of course, glass flower shoved into my throat. Her network

congeals around her. Mission: I’m supposed to network

here, strut my stuff and seal a snarky deal across

this sewer of convention. Will not speak to Her.

I’ll speak to Larva Boy here. Only glance at Her

by accident. Untangle ratty strands of network,

that nest of icy shards. The seed. I’ll come across

the things inside of me I need. I need to cross her off my network.

My finger fits there.

Should I take her

to the lake? I want

to touch her freckly-

toothy glint when she

expects a frog. No,

I don’t. I want

to struggle on behalf

of her ribs and my

clavicle. I want to

inform her that she

has the right to refuse

rancid food offered

by overconfident lovers.

No hike. No lake. Just

a driving finger that

speaks against her

sternum.

Co-op Life

I

I slept with the window open all summer
and it took until September 9^th
to notice the crickets.

II

Co-op life is full of chickpeas.

III

Different dreams
with my new fuzzy rainbow sheet
and an embroidered burgundy pillowcase
made from a dress I bought at a fleamarket.

IV

I could make knee-length wraparound pants
from the fabric swatch hanging on my wall.
And I will, too.

V.

If you microwave cheese long enough,
the oil separates out and the rest of the cheese
is chewy like gum, but less stretchy.

VI.

The F one and a half octaves above middle C
is broken on our piano, which adds
anachronistic syncopation to Bach fugues.

VII.

Vanessa was disgusted with me for asking
how to clean the potato scrubber,
but at that point I really, really didn’t know.

VIII.

With three Emilys we can make
a triple-decker Emily sandwich. Or quadruple-decker,
depending on whether the Emilys are the bread or the filling.

Breath Unbound

Breast beneath a blouse.

Burrow.

Prim breast, not pointy.

Touch and it bites.

But if you don’t touch, you'll die.

Bargain: Paint a portrait.

  Touch only to portray.

 There is a deadline.

Deadline.  Dead.  Line.

Dead without the line,

bold breast’s profile,

but touch that border past the deadline, and—

scald with scale and scab.  Seep.

Don’t touch again, then.

But the portraiteer no Pygmalion—

in the poverty of her words,

painted breasts never breathe.

Breastless.  Death.

Breastless?  Yet—

self-slide a hand down.

Fish around.

Found.  Two mounds.

Steady. Solid.

New sound: another’s hand.

Ground where two can stand.

why do you need me to be a Woman?

if you go mining in my vagina,

it’s not what you find that will blind you.

i hold no knives.

the surprise is what you won’t find—

i stow no eggs waiting to become lives.

surprise: you won’t mind.

my vagina still shines.

There is a fire in the City of Peace.

א

I am the fire in the City of Peace.

I am bent on indiscriminate destruction.

All those who fight have ravaged the City.

In fighting, they destroy what they fight for.

I shall bring their efforts to their honest conclusion.

The City shall die.

I am the fire in the City of Peace.

ב

I am the fire in the City of Peace.

I know what brings together people who are at each other’s throats.

Mutual disaster, caused by neither side, brings together people who are at each other’s throats.

In fighting me, they shall stop fighting each other.

The city shall be saved.

I am the fire in the City of Peace.

ג

I am the Fire in the City of Peace.

Fight me not, lest ye not see Me for Me.

Thou shalt see Me.

I, the Lord your God, am the City of Peace.

I am the Fire in the City of Peace.

ד

I am the City of Peace.

The fire purifies my shame.

My shame is not my scream of pleasure in the forbidden.

My shame is my feigned scream of pleasure in the permitted.

I am the City of Peace.

ה

I am the City, purified by the Fire which is God.

Why then cannot I stop also being the Firefighter?

Why can't I stop fighting the fire in the City of Peace?

This is a monster’s dream, conveyed to me by phone:

I sculpt the missing parts of a dog out of leftover pizza. He whimpers when I make him eat it.

It’s the custom here, so I try not to pause when I see youths floating in formaldehyde.

What poetry? I can peel the poetess, layer by cling-wrap layer.

What’s-Left-Behind speaks. This is what he tells me:

"Do you want to know how to control poetry?

Every third day I lose my middle toe. And on that day I’m sure I’m not a poet."