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make

make the booze hum

make the throat larger

make this screen brighter

may these fingers soften

make the vowels sing

make the night longer

shade the grass bluer

move the moon closer

reinvent the color of your eyes

mine them like minerals

make mine the orebody

mend the jaws’ loose hinges

make my tongue

make the buzzards blacker

make them circle our bodies

shrill their Caw over me and you

shake those heavy wings

make the firewater

make my tongue tell time

face the clocks to the wall

drill the well deeper

fill it with sweat

make the point sharper

waste it on their oily wings

carry away with the buzzards

make liquor your dinner

make my shoes soggy

make me climb up to you

collapse the well

extract your eyes

undo my tongue

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original photography by japhy riddle

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trespasses

I don’t know the kind of house it would be, in architecture or floor plan

I never could get close enough to go inside and admire our decor

our trappings.

To begin with, I don’t know how to conceptualize our

 

front yard and fence

a leaf blower

him changing the oil bringing in mail taking out garbage and me

cleaning out refrigerator

matching Tupperware to their lids.

 

I have never been inclined to sequels for any given moment.

 

I ask you now to suspend judgement as we trespass on property,

perhaps yours,

trip upstairs

suspend your piety as he pushes me against fresh paint as if

you left only hours ago

eggshell honeymilk slipper satin paper white

suspend your unspoken covenants here –

(nobody has moved in yet)

 

the window swells his stomach and neck, consequently my hands and mouth in

moon

as in silk and sealace, ivory, bone and cream sousing all parts of our selves

in that high brightness

flat floor and oblique walls are all the same to us

my hair my shoulders in the small of my back, white smoke, my ghost white backside gives us away

sometimes there is no way

to see what happens next.

hold it right there

 

I brought you

to the curves in the south fork

I use my lashes

to sweep up your attention

hold it

right there

an eddy, a dervish,

a timely spoon in my eyes

on,

then in,

yours, oh god

I just make up so many stories to keep you

right here

how I laughed at the neighbor boy

behind his back

called him weird

told him to get off my property

I was devilish

struggled to be a good kid.

Everyone was sinning their way

to hell in a handbasket

adultery

words bargain time

fornication, transubstantiation

the river is blue and deep at the south fork.

We would throw empty wild turkey off the rocks

bellowing and daring each other down

after them

now

I follow you,

after your wife, into the water,

I can see you seeing her. Wind and sun

substantiating your deep blue guilt

a lapse in

storytelling.

Once I told my mom I wanted to see

what was under our priest’s vestments.

I never was able

to get out of dodge

quick enough

holding down the fort for you

here at the rocks at the south fork at the water’s edge

in the eye of the hurricane

hold it

right there

an eddy, a dervish,

a timely spoon in my eyes

on,

then in,

yours, oh god

I came to myself lover after lover

singing my way to hell.

Kenne-Gregoire-1951-Novo-pintor-do-realismo-Vida-intima

kenne Gregoire 1951

He

I still label it “masculinity”

despite the matrilineal anger

it sprung from, or rather –

the man inside me

sprung.

 

His need to fuck but

be free, naturally therein lies a

fiction and an

adolescence, an attachment

to individuation: dusk-dawn

the first light of differentiation,

yin-yang, the plausibility of the body

we are born into.

 

It’s controversial to admit that I am

a colonialized woman

I remember

a dialect of tenderness – speaking

was like splitting fruit with my mouth

the idea of freedom did not govern me

I was already free

my limbs were in chorus, seasons of

sympathetic magic with a phenomenal world.

 

My mother passed along her rage

bred within me an extraverted boy who punched

holes in the drywall, cauterized my womb,

a sovereign masculinity that defines me and enslaves

my anatomy to geometric efficiency, narrower hips

smaller breasts less luster less room

for impressions or shadows.

 

We are as close to friends as we will ever become,

I know his secret love of fire

the heat of things we

share

sun up sun down in the trenches where I was

told to hide: they’re his night terrors not mine

he brought the war in while I

unlearned my instincts.

 

So I come here for the fruit –

the lost language

though never all the way forgotten

long past dusk in starry corridors,

unsupervised while he sleeps

I chew slowly

quietly.

 

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original artwork by kaitlin deasy

word problem

she is faithless

the way a valley divides

for settlements and

agriculture and arithmetic

and law and alleys

and red-light, and him

and her

 

women don’t talk about

their faithlessness, they

do the math confidentially.

the other man I think about

divided into me

equals

 

an alley, if 1 woman

is distributed among 5 men

unequally and obsessively

over 3 years what are the remainders

and how can they be grieved –

 

it becomes a word problem

for which there are none.

 

she is an aberration

I think about him when –

a sorcerer

I’m with you –

an algorithm

I don’t know why –

a fraction

I’m sorry –

in a whole.

 

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original artwork by kaitlin deasy

 

gave your body love

 

among the mountain

of thought you call

we, the diaphanous body

broken at your mouth by

the asking     a fish jumped

gave its body love

 

seen a mountain twice

once, as companion,

another in the thought of itself

on the face of the lake we

tried to ascend, lip by lip

giving love to its body

 

gave your body love

out of my broken lips

asking between answering

between light and retina,

sensitivity between skin

some worlds are limitless

 

given our world a body

jumping for the mountain,

your mouth, a lake, an eye blink,

a bruise of clouds low-hanging

over the sun where we made it up

to our bodies in love

 

love gave our bodies one

blink of ascension

awake the mountain and open

a lake of clouds halfway between our

twice felt skin between a bruise there

from the climb between the bodies

giving love

 

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original artwork by kaitlin deasy

to be high

I want to be high on

thinnest breath as

I lay my pillow on rock

by the saguaro, with my head

inside those linear shadows

momentarily forgotten –

how I need these very words –

I want to be high on

need, coming up dry while

the diaphragm pumps away

how I would lie for a language, cheat

and manipulate, how I would throw

my self onto the saguaro or

turn a hoodoo into goose down,

I’ve done it before, gone prostrate

on a thing thousands of years in the

making, and I would do it again,

take a word or two, neglect

their etymon, patch them

with silence,

and defy the natural law

how I would plunge

into the desert belly first chest

to follow, like a piston

and get my fix from a place

unseen.

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original photography by kaitlin deasy

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