The Road to Ithaka

I am white-hot A wick knotted to a flame Red-black and blooming. Where words were, there is Only white phosphor, the bright Brilliance of feeling

A coiled knot, I Am an infinitesimal Story of being It is only the Resonance of existing That can sustain me

Now my fingers ache- Absent pen a phantom limb Of body and soul

At last she spends The dog-ends of Amends.  Alone, Now, and thrown To the stones, she is snuffed out.

They yowl, teeth sprung from Old blood and new bones, grievance Smelted from grave-dust.

A she-shaped scar aches Old wounds hurt in new places Only when it rains

I had thought the verse would spring Fully-formed from my cloven skull, Or burst into being from lightning-struck earth. Instead, I am stranded in a spice market Sun-drunk and saffron-dusted Chasing the scent Of a taste for which I have no name.

Your scent lingers In the cold hollow of the bed. I breathe, And dream you into being

The weaker vessel- Pour out her vintage, and keep Only the bottle

What am I to do When my words taste of dry dust? Once-precious stones held beneath my tongue Trapped between clenched jaws And teeth that grind out ghosts of words Too low to hear. I am a single sinew stretched too taut For music Curled up like a closed fist Buried in the darkness of my palm; Refuge from the blistering sun As I wait for rain.

Dreaming Is to collect a litany of lovers: The patter of stones on your window And the stifled sigh Of furtive love Beneath the cover of night. Some burn hot and bright and brief, Turned to ash by morning That tumbles down between the floorboards. Others have soft words and sharp teeth That mark the joining of your neck Long after the bed Grows cold. And there are others, yet, That curl their fingers in your hair And press their lips to your nape With a whispered promise That they will linger in the light.

I am stumbling, snowblind-- Drowning in the white Of a world blazed bright and burnt out. Numb, But for the barest breath of warmth That sears to the bone.

Fear Burrows like a tick Inside my ear- Grown fat, Swollen with my self-loathing.

Trace, with your fingertips The arc of your eyes’ white-hot descent: My satellite,  Drawn down by sacred gravity.

Growth Is to embrace a lifetime of little deaths, Shedding the skins of unfamiliar shapes, So we may become Each season’s separate being.

I can only offer naked words, Stripped bare to bright bone. Flesh is lovely, But oh, How it bleeds.