DinnerI got up from the table and the unreliable scraping of the chairGave maybe too much emphasis to my announcement.It would seem that all I am leaving are dismembered broccoli treesIn a deforested dinner plate, a half empty glass of water
But I am leaving more than one word, more than just this night.I am leaving because I'm too hungry to sit down and eatThe food they tainted with blessings.The wood floor is reliable and each step out is another, graduallyQuieter, protest raised over my shoulder, like salt to counterBad luck. My run is not the run of a child; a child who dartsFrom the dining room and out into the dim street; to the woodsWhere he finds he is scared. He got to that place by riding a big waveThat carried him fast to a halt
to where there is no dinner;Just the rustle of trees and what pride heCould muster stuck in his throat.This is the motion of a hand, lifting a wallet from theBed-side table, making sure it counted, adding a passport.Then the key
ClaudiaThe cloth is a dry brown rapid,Turned to lace by a river's stain;A river that crawls on a moving plain,Its mouth born in an open trap.An embroidered phoenix with swirling wingsHides on a hem, its feathers stuckIn a cradling half-circle, matching the tuckOf femininity under a veil that sings.The fabric stings like music too soft,In a box, on a mirror. It reflectsToo vividly the damp dress the protectsThe fragile limbs it hangs from, aloft Like Spanish moss or raven hair.Like waves in the bedsheets,Curls are beautiful pictures the holdA broken, sobbing face connected to the world.No other longing than familiar hands the keep;Kept the blood in the riversEmbedded below pale valleys and shadows...But as pain dries brown and dims in the window,Flesh and soul are left in hungry shivers.
The StrollIn a court that is a yard,With the goat and the lamb,I play croquette with a scaleAnd a fine taste I've acquired.It is no longer a matter of leftOr right, or how to swing a racket.It is no longer a fork in the road;One down towards healingAnd the other down towards help.The grass is never greenerUnless it really is and youAre stuck in a lawnmowerWith a job to do; a choiceTo make for everyone but you.In a fire that is the cold,With the serpent and sentinel,I play my videotape for opposing sidesWho will silence my lips.But I say no, to everything.When sleep never comes to wakingThere is no up or down.There is only nothing; the end.In a time that has no minutesHours go by with each glassOf lemonade or made-with-loveCookie that passes like we do,Turned to dust and taken out.So when good is bad, I willBe free. When wrong is right,I will make another path wherePurgatory can be everythingWhile staying nothing.