the wooden ribcage
of a god. I want
to fold my clothes
in a small room
with a red velvet curtain.
I’d confess: Once,
on the Boston Common, I kissed
a stranger in a Port-A-Potty.
Would a disembodied voice
ask, Why? There’s dark hope
in a dove-tailed booth.
Low-lit opening, Gothic frame,
a sense of someone
breathing, maybe sipping
tea behind a wall.
Ink stains on an oak bench
keeping backs straight.
I confess. I hide tears
for my Catholic husband’s
dead, his family’s
white-veiled weddings,
the dip of new babies
in a drop of blessed.
off your eye like zest
shaved from an orange.
Blink. Night stands
naked in an open robe.
It’s early morning.
How long have you waited?
What clockwork
flashes? Don’t blink.
It’s only death.
No flesh beneath
the terry towel.
Everything you thought
had weight is pretense,
a suck, underwater.
To all appearances,
he was a healthy man.
Deborah’s hand rests
on the arm of her captain’s
chair. Grandchildren
mimic bleeps on Papa’s
monitor. She pulls
Polaroids from a bag –
Bahamas, heat lightning,
their wedding on the beach.
Back then, hair was long
enough to sit on. White
noise of farewell,
a silent sand in her throat,
she hums a song,
holds Glenn’s forearm
as their daughter places a cut
bouquet. Deborah spits
grief. A room of sunflower
galaxies. She damns
the solitary star that falls
from her eye. Toddlers
approach her. Nana Boots?
Papa’s metal bed. On tiptoe,
family shrinks away
as Deborah lifts her chin,
ascends fluorescent. She adjusts
her marquise diamond,
turns the stone
to sparkle. Orange and blue
twilight, cut champagne flute.
On Glenn’s blanket,
brought from home, photos curl.
A bluefish hangs from his hook.
He holds it high – Effortless.
of ice. Flipping
flag, needle-tooth pike
left overnight to freeze.
Too small. I’m a taste
of coffee steam as winter
rises in her crystal mouth.
I’m solid. A bald eagle
tries to lift me
off in claws. She fails.
I’ve never given flesh
without a fight.
Next morning, stiff.
The raptor’s mate
has got me by the tail.
The couple’s ripping
either end. At my gill,
she broadens my grin.
isn’t skin cancer.
It’s your love bite.
I am speckled
with years of kisses.
Ignore the blood
trickle. My bleeding
has always healed.
Today will be
no different. Turn
away from that rat-
shaped cloud, open-
mouthed, shadow
toothed. The sun
is burning through.
Let’s walk together
into searing heat.
