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Tag: narrative



You turn in your sleep, and
it is at times like these when I wish

you could wake and listen: I am ill.

I know there are times when
you lie awake, hearing the sounds of

another’s bed, hearing the sounds

of children running in the streets
after dark. These are rudimentary:

the skin is leaving my body.

Organs, too, disintegrate like
ripened fruit, until I am returned

to where I began: the bone, the marrow,

until the marrow, too, has been drunk
by distant birds.

This is all I have left to give you.




A Poem–different from my usual work


It is without a word that you
follow me outside

like a lumbering shadow.
We reach the sidewalk, our steps matching.

Wind tangles in my hair as we pass
apartment doorways and windows.

It is when we see the shadows
of two people making love

through an illuminated curtain
that we realize I have been out of touch.

We stop under a tree that reminds us
of a cherry tree, the pink blossoms, and

your breath falls down my cheeks, my neck,
warm against the still-crisp spring air.

Then we are warmer, the touch of lips.
We say nothing, the fog of breath

accumulating, and finally we walk on,
the crunch of tree seeds under our feet.


When He Asked Her to Turn Him into a Poem

She removed his shirt
and pushed him

into the moonlight.

He became all silvery skin.
And so she painted him—deep black

covered portions of
his arms, his hands, his face,

until finally she moved him out
of the moonlight.

He disappeared,
except for a hand here, a limb there,

and also his eyes, the pale blue,
that reminded her

of the moonlight.
He was only floating pieces,

shining. And silence.