An ember, hot poker, a cry, a drop, a crash—
the Miller tells his tale with relish.
And here alone in the Mill City I’ll embellish
The story just a bit and a little slapdash.
The river foam isn’t flour-white, but flour’s not white
Only bleached
And I’m beached
On a riverbank without a fight.
There is no flood
Only flour, and ice in the blood
And concrete and mud....
You have become soft, I whisper
When urine stings my nose
When smoke smarts my eyes
When shouts grate my ears.
You have become soft, I cry
When I long for a smile
When I ask for some sweetness
When I look for a cushion or shade.
You are soft and pliant as cheese
You are soft and wispy as leaves
You are soft and easy as rain.
But then again, perhaps I am not soft.
Perhaps I am ripe....
If a man would be a leader, let him be a bridge.
If a woman would be a leader, let her be a pylon.
Let her slice against the current, watching waterbirds fly on
Beyond her sight over the distant ridge
Where rapids stretch their legs and meander
Out into the world. Let her buttress with steely arms
The passersby who fear no harm
From great arches, their master and commander.
Gathering barnac...
The curve of your hip flares out like a queen’s crown,
And your hair is the mantle of a king.
Buried under wind driven snow or ash
we can’t—or don’t—think of the kingdom’s fall.
Where your calf curves out and buckles in, I watch and I want to weep.
That is the only logical response to such ecstasy....
Cast your nets wide, I tell the young people with big eyes and empty hearts,
Throw fishing lines out, spinning until you have woven yourself a web
Or a mat
Or a blanket.
Take courage, I say to my students, because if you cast enough lines the world will begin to catch them steady.
You will find fish in your net, meals in your web, prayer upon your mat, warmth in your blanket.
And so here...
I turn my belly skyward for your viewing pleasure.
Does this please you?
Your gaze scorches this skin-patch, but I don’t flinch.
Would you notice if I did?
My tongue lolls out, hungry for the taste of your knowing fingers.
May I lick them?
I thirst, I pant, I am want itself, I am inflated with desire.
Won’t you fill me?
Your gaze is fickle, but I am faithful. I am patient.
I must wait....
I long to be a blank space in your history.
I long for your touch, for your fingers to twist
and pull at the strands of my signature.
Say my name.
Your silence is my death.
Your silence presses my bones deeper into earth, dirt dampening the cries in my lungs.
Say my name.
My son was king, my son survives.
My son is not I, I am not my son nor my daughters nor their dynasty.
Say my name...
The sound of my needle piercing linen is
As crisp as a cherry popping forth from red lips
As round as a plum pressed to pink tongue.
I draw pink thread through each wound I make,
Suturing past to present.
The hole of this needle gives way to the eye of a skull, then another.
A hole in the shape of a nose blooms in negative space, a Bermuda Triangle ignorant of scent on the air.
Holes be...
Just a thank you note to say that
Once you were bespectacled, respectable as
the stack of yellowed paperbacks behind your
mouth that smacks of wis-dom, wise judgement,
heavy as a cudgel in the contours of my brain.
Your words hung in the air, light as a wrecking ball
and there were angels in the atmosphere. Their blood is on your hands, which were extended, palms up,
full of gifts that I savo...
