(not who I am when the words come, not
who I am when the smoke and I commune, silent
in the backyard over the grave I made of your letters) and
the juniper is foreign here. I have needed it.
The oil grubs, stuck in my hands. Your blood
is grit under my nails.
Who I am when the lightning strikes:
barely visible, decisive talon, junkie hearted
and throbbing on the stoop.
Invite me in.
Don’t give
up
on my open heart petri putrid gush.
I am a spore.
If ever you, my dearly dead, have doubted me, then come
and tell me of it now.
I invoke cloture and withstand you.
The mint grows thick and wild around my ankles, the lemongrass
saws at my calves.
I do not bleed.
Who I am when I am just remains, regrubs, regains.
Moldy, a plethora of life. Who
can tame me now?
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