Her Body Described as Homeless
He’s serious. Won’t listen to the doctor. A desire
with hooks on its wings. He won’t let go.
The blue eye of the whaler. The pale light of the sails. His other
lover slips him the medicine tongue. Entire orchestras of silence.
Perhaps he’s not fooling around. He’s got juice in his club.
Perhaps he’s a little thick like his body.
The sharp scent of soap. Homemade.
Tiny axes ungreening my cumbersome thumb.
There’s some light on my head, and I don’t believe it’s a miracle.
The barking of artillery. A disaster of uninvited Chopins.
The little deaths electric but not electrical.
He’s hammering an Underwood with
a cigarette and a glass of bourbon, his night
inviting, switched. Off.
He still visits my lawn and my garden,
my little row of babies next to the turnips.
So now I know, I am thinking, that I can be heard
crying when I’m not there. Could I ever have become his passive god?
How could I have wanted to be so useless?