Why hide? To be found. Why be found?
She understands the place she was born into is full of shadows. They slip into her open cracks, slide oozing into the gutters of her ribs, spill against the long, unbroken lines of her legs.
Why did he shape my brother’s body to the contours of war? Is this the shape of all our language already?
blame grows small in the moth’s circling / day to day the slightest tooth loosens / a landscape changes until returning by habit
Her dough-tipped fingers sparrow another pale moon into fullness as
a giant beast clouds the thicket of bamboo upon its back
with steam. Enough heat can turn a lake
into air, the sea into some memory
of having once held breath underwater.
Some nights inside the caterwaul of coyotes / the telephone rings, very late or very early. / Then my father walks out into darkness. / My mother still sleeping / and I am.
When I need my mother most
I climb inside my mouth
turn left at my incisor teeth
turn right at the ghosts of both
and find her dancing under
the chandelier of my uvula.
I think of poetry as musical language, close to every day speech but of a higher order, with a system of notation.
That exalted moment when, out of nowhere, you are obliterated—completely, blissfully destroyed—by a voluptuous euphoria. A lightning flash of inspiration.…