Dedicated to Michael Rothenberg
a skein of lightning across the mud-tree,
a cold hand walks its way
up the trunk; someone has remembered
to dry to the dishes with
the dead rat sponge; they have taken
my head
out of the oven; he spits pips
of mist; the pericardium of the sun
simmers as primary colors disgust
a painter boiling glass. Either I will
myself be dead (no
difficulty there) one glimpse—and—
vomit—or it will all be white with
a circumference
waiting for the other long pause
in the network, giving applause
to insects, for rise
and fall of the fraction
of the moment
when it, too, seemed impossible
that the moment could perforate,
but the discussion turned
as long as lunation. again
I discuss the mud-tree, other objects
that turn brown: emulsion of ponds, paper,
haphazard hands….worst: leviathan
time. ache of tongue. twitch
of thighs. my tongue, a damp electrical
wire, my teeth, ground pearls; above these
thoughts, the “here” vibrates on a dotted
diagonal, older than others;
only murmur no more, for at intervals
where the furrows in the fulcrum
show granulation like the sun, a flawed
fruit, a healing wound. yesterday’s
ocean empties itself into a
puddle. go make love
to someone else. the faded
beauty is still beauty. a loss of innocence,
is it not?
9.5-7.2005
1.
before the buildings and boulevards,
the blackened trees sewn together with
the lies you smear like shit on a wall,
through unknown lands and ghosts of
flawed logs cabins, through the bloodless
plateaus and charred prairies, one foot
in front of the other, on the way to
God, with only one more river to cross
before we can build a home.
2.
here I can see my hands through the black-
eyed susan’s and pulverized trees. they are
wet, wrinkled, leaning into the warm
campfire, clutching that final stale piece of bread;
the men and women their eyes against their
children, growing paler, quieter, and thinner.
3.
if I could see a brain I would
see it in slices. I would close the
eyes of the brain to the dirt
embedding itself in my toes,
my fingers, my skin; I would force
the eyelids shut against the light.
2.3.2002-8.25.2005
Outside, woman quietly wiping
her feet on the mat of the man who sliced
her sister’s breast. nothing
completed within any memorable
2-ton tear or tear, tree’s trunk, limb,
leaf, will help later on(her sister told her
as a last goodbye): last night creeps
out with secrets so old they ripen by
not being told. the green sun flashes on the pavement do
you feel differently yes why do you feel differently. she knows
that to them & through them were plenty valid ways to get
inside the house’s
two eyes. She refuses (and refuses to be) all good girls
are like that. she has forgotten he once sliced the breast
her sister. he did not have another name for her, but did
make her call him
Doctor as he then slitted his way across her body.
8.27-9.3.2005
Michelle is a senior at Florida Atlantic University with a Writing and Rhetoric major. Some of her main early influences were Anne Carson, Adrienne Rich, Diane Wakoski, Ai, Laura Mullen, and Diane di Prima. She is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and has been published in numerous magazines including AUGHT, BlazeVOX, X-stream, and upcoming in Word/ for Word. She has three collections forthcoming.