poetry
 
12 POEMS OF JOY
 
 
 
I
 
 
I must put it in,
get it in, and get it down deep,
and pack more in on top. And more,
I must watch myself do it.
And I must watch her watch me doing it.
And we must together watch it
all go down, predictable,
inevitable, and shocking,
always shocking -
fucking shocking us, over and over.
 
Thunderbolts of Zeus
burning us to cinders,
over and over again.
 
 
 
II
 
 
So what, then, but to suck on the silver spoon,
lick the bottom of the bowl,
chew its rim,
gnaw the table too
till i get my teeth to snap like chalk -
like chalk, to break -
 
and then to gnash enough, and hard enough,
to pulverize the last tooth of resistance,
till i crest the alveolar ridge.
Oh then, and only then,
will i be fit for suckling,
powerless at the full and generous
breast forever. 
 
 
  
III
 
 
Wise Daedalus - with only one wing done -
fled before a mob
determined to string him up
and pinata the hell out of the man.
Running for his life,
he donned the single wing and,
triple-jumping to the cliff's edge,
launched himself,
leaving the killers marooned.
 
As he made into the open air,
wing outstetched on one side,
inadequate flapping hand
on the other,
 
he knew that all
the wisdom of science and reason
would not support him.
 
 
  
IV
 
 
I note a lump inside me,
in my body -
in the thorax, in fact -
in my chest -
just shy
of the sixth rib.
 
It throbs.
 
It is clearly alive.
 
It is an eager, pupate lepidoptera.
 
Or, no, it is a slim lizard, legs bundled, incubating.
 
Or, no, it is a cradling mammal perhaps, coiled like an ammonite,
fragile paws over sightless eyes,
praying for its life.
 
Or, no, i see clearly now it is a gleaming spring
of terror,
its breathing a rhythmic flexing of its own strength,
preparing to stand out into the world,
where it will do mischief beyond all recall.
 
I have treasured it so,
loved it - this thing - so,
and i accept that i'll treasure it always,
even as it clears my breastbone and murders us all.
 
 
 
 
V
 
 
I have killed.
I'm sure to do it again.
I was breast-fed till i was 18.
It's my mother's fault.
I replay vividly my grandmother's death.
Each morning. It rouses me.
In my quiet room, i plan the rape and slaughter
of thousands, near and far.
When i was a child,
the sound of our dog yelping at the window,
as we left for family outings ...
 
... well, i could not but burst into tears.
 
The thought had never occurred to me
That I may, in fact, exist - not until mere days ago.
And more miracle: I am willing to believe it could be true.
 
 
 
 
 
VI
 
 
Dandelion, understanding,
stands and stretches
into the hot air
and cheerfully, happily,
is annhiliated,
torn asunder,
drawn to Heaven.
 
 
 
 
VII
 
 
"Look, we're moving to Europe. To London, actually. That's where my wife's from. I hear it's great over there. People keep telling me I'll love it. I think it's really gonna be great. But so, listen, we just want it out of the house. I'll tell ya, why don't you just come on over and take the goddamn thing for free?"
 
 
 
VIII
 
 
She looked at the floor and wall and was uncomfortable,
and I did not smile.
I did not say her name.
 
She told me her family secret,
and I made a joke of it,
and we laughed.
 
She spat and snarled
and made claws.
I shrugged and looked away.
 
God, how will ever I atone for my sins?
 
 
 
 
IX
 
 
Van Helsing unfastened the coffin lid,
peeled the crucifix from the bone-white brow.
He pulled the garlic from the rust-flecked mouth,
careful not to touch the teeth.
He stitched back on the severed head,
and he blotted up evidence of Holy Water,
and, full of care, he heaved free the hammer-frayed stake,
like Excalibur from the nameless stone.
 
Rolling up his sleeves, he said:
 
"Now here comes the hard part."
 
 
 
 
X 
 
 
I was so afraid -
yes, more afraid
than I have ever
ever ever ever ever
ever ever ever ever
ever ever ever ever
ever ever been
before, ever.
 
O, melodrama!
 
 
 
XI
 
 
How many times does a woman laugh a day?
A survey I read
Said twenty.
 
How do they know
 
Where one laugh ends,
The next begins?
 
Can the animals be taught to laugh?
 
Can machines?
 
Or what about weeping?
 
To hear my woman laugh recalls
This world is in every way perfect 
 
 
 
XII
 
 
There is a kind and like-minded thing that lies beside you while you sleep.
 
 
 
 
 
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