Admer B.

often a fever i don’t know how to soothe, even  my hands bald its nails;

still incapable to pull daffodils out from backbones.

it is what i wished to scatter– O sweet, sweet infestation– of bare people; bare,

yet flowery.

than the water i remember from my mother’s eyes.

it glistened, and i once thought that the world was right there;

the beauty was there because the water

came from my mother.

wasn’t that a clear picture of the world?

fluids leaking from a compassionate body, often wordless,

and the gods have always spoken on her behalf.

i heard her silence, of course–

it was quiet needles frolicking like sleepless children also lulled

by blades,

like a serene sky after a war. 

let the room be occupied with soft-spoken 

flowers, soundless trees, introverted neighbors—

almost like statues;

free of long, long, long speeches.

all bare –

and bones vividly scatter outside the skin

without a birthplace. 

or who owns them?

i don't know, where the ground is,

or a body with two large eyes,

and feet– well-connected – one.

i float, perhaps.

what is this? air? dream? nightmare? clouds?

by pecking at your windows–

loud, successive, almost raging–

until your windows leak, and

get broken. until the glasses rattle to the

foot of your bed, to your bedsheets, to your

blanket, to your eyes.

i wish, sometimes, you won't hate the

birds for waking you up.

largely a morning person

or nocturnal roses compelled 

to survive fogs, molten guns

and stay wide awake

with vivid eyes, eager

not to miss the bullets 

that burst into twilights.

i have discarded it in front of your god– with my hands

wide open, bold-faced– see? 

nothing.

the child there is dead now; nobody glows gold from there–

warm-blooded– and baby fingers

climb up like edible flowers.

i have no names for them; they look unbaptized, faceless

when they cling to my body

like beggars wringing for miracles

out of me.

this is my right to exit from young tragedies and enter again with

a prosthetic tooth; an alternative for voice echoing backwards.

as soulless eyes,

devoid of human– standing before me as

though a proud god

with tongue moist and pampering–

forgive me, i don’t soften terribly with this adulation.