Poems

Published by Taint

Scanning ( September 2004)

1-

Technology and gel define your foetal curve:

a fist with an eye closed on its darkness

2-

In weeks you have emerged,

show wrinkled profile and spine: ballerina, boxer

nun, rock climber?

The scanner flickers, toils on the screen,

cannot brush away the mist.

3-

You take shelter against the wall

and kick at the swollen shackle,

the double heartbeat.

4-

Time in the heart swings between

the dog’s hour, a blue sunset.

5-

Your face, a half moon suture, sends blank

signals to the machine. You, unmade.

6-

Your night climbs my spine.

--------------

Ritual

He opens the window, beckons

the sky that touches the broken strings

of a guitar and the ruins

on his lips.

In fractured blue, he listens

to the wind, to the disorientation

of sounds pummeling ears.

And he calls to me—I bring

guideposts, a heron on my shoulder,

new strings for his guitar. I ask him

to blow a tune into the ice

that traps an earsplitting Spring.

-------

( March 2004)

Mooring

She came back home last night. We opened

the door, draped her in her room, switched off

the light. She slept with us, wall to wall,

beyond the sun

and the room’s stiffness.

She is no longer Mom; she is a dead woman

who will exit the house without shoes,

in silk stockings.

She leaves four daughters, a canary,

two hand-made carpets and a boat

moored at the door.

------------

A Mother’s Care

Here you are, bloated girl

on a mortuary shelf.

They said I have to tend you; you’ve got

nobody. Else. I scour blued crevices of thighs

and breasts. I sponge your shoulders—

someone gave you a rough

gift: twisted wire as a necklace.

Your head weighs on my arm,

I comb back bleached tresses

of hair: I see it was once black and curly, girl.

I swathe your jaw shut; the front broken

teeth hidden by puckering lips.

I’m sorry I have to plug you,

sorry the nightdress is too small,

leaves your long legs nude

in a shroud of talc. Sorry I can’t

overstay. My daughter must be home by now.

----------------

The Misconstruction ( April 2004)

We’ve shaped statues

in limestone, lined them

along the bridge. At times, on rainy days,

we hide behind them—when cars pass

and splash dirt

on amputations.

On market days—when people cross

holding bags like machine guns,

we wear a statue from neck to feet,

hold our breath, stiffen, show the eyes’ white,

aware that any moment a fig leaf and stone

nipples might betray us.