The Feed

The word in her mouth is a cluster of sharp consonants
she whispers m k and t, compresses her heart in a.

Brown of her iris folds the prism of evening light that splinters
as the birds in her garden escape the slant of the song. She has learned

to pare down the heartbeat of the city to a monochrome of white light
where she sits turning the rosary bead. Her mouth moves in prayer,

her tongue runs along the soft palate, the molars extracted after years
of the root canal: it is a soft mound like the grave at the edge of the village

she saw him dig. Her breasts produced the extra ounce of milk
at every childbirth to be squeezed into the mouth filled with soil.



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Abandon

What would mark the slowness of time
as the daylight spreads like the dust of chalk, moves with the bees
on the terrace?

I hear the sharp call of parakeets
from the branches of the mango tree that grows from the seed she spits
a summer afternoon holding the fruit like a bowl of sex.

She floats near the ceiling the days he keeps away
visiting the dancer who peregrinates the temple
like an exquisite sea animal.

Bluest light pools the craters gutted in the womb
ejecting the uterine wall. She quivers at the interface with earth –
hard mantle collapses and the softness of love leavens his departure.

The Cursed Flower

She sits at the edge of the tide, the sky
bleaches the folds of her neck. The flowers in the skirt 

deceptive take colors from the house. She fashions a tunic
tasseled with strands of time when every event takes a step back.

As the weight of emptiness rests on the rosewood chair
her mind drops into the silenced bowl of the day.

The clock hands tremble with particles of constancy: the clover
fragrant in the smoked fish on the counter, the dust in air

fed by flecks of coal hefted from the stove as corn fobs
gyrate in the squall of hunger. The tongue of the Pandanus flower bears

the language of the silenced deity, she slices the rosette of curse
weaves the fragrant strand in her hair to stitch the gash of shame.

The Monsoon Story

The last monsoon the black scorpions were restless
we fogged them with steam, brew tea in a mud pot.

The fire in the stove flared from the squall
as the cyclone moved toward the coast and lashed

tall waves on the church. My hair was braided with scented oil
to nest the snakes that came from the well in large numbers:

that was the only way to tease them out. The leaves rested
in the gutter as the algae in nebulous howl went down the pipe.

The door breathed with moisture, expanded in girth
across my chest, as I sat in the firewood room.

In the intimacy of my body, the full moon swelled
through layers of cloud, stitched my sap to the cycle of the earth.

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A Tale From The Forgotten Land – II

Mountains thunder down their brawny torsos, nose askew elephants in confusion
wade the river that has lost the banks.

I move homes by tricking the bones and lungs, fold into the heights,  curl in
the hollow of the rocks fetal

as even the eagle rolls out larger than me. The air coils in the tension of terror
along the liquid shoulder of the cliff.

Everything is red this morning – the soil, the river, and water draining my throat –
bloody like the spout from the hawk’s neck.

Stars wheel though darkness as in creation-time nameless but with the identity
of my dead mother.

Where are the homes of birds, food for the bees, the sun whose rays must penetrate
the graves of my people?

A Tale From The Forgotten Land

Breasts can hang like a pouch upturned if unencumbered.
The tension of the nerves, the muscles cradle the energy of desire as

he arches his ache upward in an abandon of dance.
The kayak floats over the nautilus in the churn of time when no wind

blows from the other lands. He loops around my legs for a day
in a lazy embrace. When shadows mark the horizon

like a hermit crab that senses tremors in the sand he recoils
into the calcified memory of the earth. The waves

proliferate stories of our origins. As the evening turns amber
like the roots we brew, the bottom of the stone tub swirls in clouds

with the shapes of people we identify: many of them fell to diseases
to save us.  The sand is pregnant with the lost ones

the flair of the womb mirrors the dead child I buried
when the tongue of the sun gouged the sea into a tsunami.

 

The Conservation Of Matter

To be a good person is to carry the luggage all time
watch the shoulder sag under the bags just when you have cleared
the window to see the dew fall off a leaf, the sun curl in the space
between toes.

Because you cannot crawl down the cave streaked with the feral matter
the tale of cosmology gathers in the line under the eyes,
cups the breeze stirred by the flight of bats. The traces that exist
are the arms of delusion.

A line of ants ambles over the rump of clay in a journey
where there is no place to arrive. You want to open
the door, slot the key into the hole of possession. How easy
to give that away by lying face down

feet waving in the air, grasping torques of amber light.
The soft pouches of tissues like bags of coins slump along the path
with missteps too late to correct, the metaphor in the throat
falls through with black ash.

Matter shifts in shape, moves along the thin line of time
in a hospital ward folded in the crispness of departure. The awning is drawn
taut to gather particles of sun from the face as the smell of paper
is wasted on the foliage of trees.