to kill a junebug--tasseled,
bulging but glistening like marbles
spun under sea. The uselessness
of sex--the havoc we make of pleasure
tumult, find her obscenity like
water: I am what I love--
to kill a rooster: who among you
is at ease? Who thought this
saint would be unmoored like the
stones, seeds, shackles. It’s like this: hand of my
hand, marrow of my marrow, and lack
for my lust with the fruit ripe
enough to bite into flesh
of finger and ovum.
just a taste.
I am what I love--
when she unfastens morning, God is
the pear and the body-- baked,
undertow, with a face full of doves.
*“I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty”*
I ranked the beds by the quality of dust upon the sill--fresh, earthy, fraught.
There are only two ways of doing without.
I knew a girl convinced of her charm,
her distaste for flowers. she’d dress me in white
I’d float from a stone to a spruce
unearthing all rhyme.
--Solemnity: the broken mood of men--
the moors, their ripeness. The sea
mars tides over.
whose fish? Whose mother?
*The Gods and Their Little Games*
Hera told Zeus to write the vows, calls
centerfold a load of cock and summons all
kings to pine. Oh Balladeer of Murder! Oh,
Stuff your legend. Eve is returning that rib
to Adam, but he wants
to keep the flesh of his flesh,
rattle at his own tale,
keep light fastened. Eve is unleashing
solstice, excising Cain, forgiving Jacob, letting
monarchs pollinate her blood,
make it bloom--
make it bright black.
Zeus never learned to write, Hera trots
rose hips over to Eve and they sing the
breeze for 17 minutes.
There they go, taking Babels down
brick-by-brick, unsewing bones to
frisk freedom’s feathered tail, sweating
and sunk up with swans. but you’re
crocheting chasms of
forgetting, rationing mondays into
linens, loving something
that is not me.
*Moth Song, 279*
Apprehending like suds on
Saturday car washes: ether
or rain. and what was there but unpotted
honeysuckle climbing pergola fastened
by father and dug by worms:
split and puddled,
plucked, but parsing
stones in all their performance.
A moth is an unadmired wingéd thing:
yearning for un-cottoned, bare bodies.
Sleeping, we are all moths--sheeted and
shook by our blindness. By the light nested
away. By the laughing needle awaiting our
Will they wonder how our big bodies
took flight? Will they forget us flying?
— Danielle Isbell