|Apr/May 2009 Poetry|
They resurrect the walls
by whispering strange spells.
They wash the basin; in it, clothes
set out for Sunday have paled.
It is not enough to hope for water.
In a dry season, death opens its chasm.
When all feels lost,
they move hands over books,
hoping some lines, the forgotten
they adored, would offer solace.
They fade like gossamer—
moth wings hold more color
than the skin of these lovers.
No light keeps company;
no curtain opens to a knocking door.
They prop the furniture,
crack kindling for the hearth.
They wait for the sons and daughters
to come home. They wait.
talisman for the single
there are ways to keep him—
moon shaped, a toenail like a promise
a smoking mouth formed in red clay
the skin of his neck rubbed with perfume
and menstrual blood—any man
doesn't matter which one
but if you find your love
of his name is greater than the love
of his absence—try beeswax
open your dress—show him death
waits for no one while the young breathe
all the good air and wander
as if a home is for them just 'cause they're young
this is nature we're forming: tears, sweat, urine
forget your higher calling
the bleach-white bed of your saints
like a chicken too old to be laying eggs
or be of any taste
remind him that the seasons don't wait
then just get up and close the door
just like that—quick and final