First Week in Her Bed
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The miracle was that no one was
home. I could let the sounds out.
The sounds entered through her
neck & came out of my mouth.
My thighs adagioed. I went
2
everywhere she took me. The
silence I’d always prayed for
came like an unbeckoned dog,
dirty gong wagging. A beached
shore I was. Beneath her pull I
was a grave that resists the
shovel only to be filled with
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body. The apartment was quiet,
speckled dishes untouched as
rain mid-fall. She shook me. My
orange tree couldn’t forgive the
sun & so released a flock of
burst. She ate me. My reader,
don’t look. Don’t look beyond
this word. Or this. She ate the
sound. I fed it to her
4
in the applause of my shoulder blades
for the lamp of her neck. She ate
the skin off the apple that is
the planet of my yes. She ate the in-
between words: the, off, is, my,
& left only the pit. We stripped
5
the bed to an empty page. Fell
through the white into another
kind of courage. She said I just
want to look & lowered herself
to my equator, bluffing. She
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dove, my champion, & when
in the wet she glanced up at me I
saw how she would sooner kill
than unhandle me gentle. I saw I
could trust my sounds in her
mouth to unravel then clot again.
I couldn’t keep my soul
7
to myself. I had to share it with her
molars, the tree tops eleganting
the window frame. Beshert, as
bread breaks between hands we
tore & tore the hours, useless
to empire, tongues
sealing envelopes with
honey.
Hundreds gather to rescue a single bird
Central Gaza, day 213
tangled in the wires
the man in blue sweat
pants and a brown t-shirt
reaches with a long rod ––––
men hoist him above
everyone who looks up
will not
make the news
they clap and cheer
as he finally fishes the bird the ––––
bird a limp hieroglyph
dead until his
hands make it mean free
Nude II
I tried to keep her at arm’s distance, this
woman I’ve become. Now she’s pouring out
of me, no tits to hide, all seek. She leans
back, neck to ceiling. A waterfall her
hair, a lobe readied. Her lids close, a song
undresses in the depths. I want––I did
not expect this––her mouth on mine. Sterile
is every cage. Let this be a lesson.
Where horses buck and language unravels
she’s found the knob for no-door. Take me, take
me, me. Butter in the throat, music in
the pan, sizzle the no-door open, yes,
now. No hospital wing, no religion,
no man could empty me of peonies.
