Monday, May 27, 2013

27 May 2013

Geisha Considered as Making

Outside the door, voices range,
Each a petal barred from another life

And brought here. Do you see
The door is torn? I eat in rooms without windows

And refuse to paint my lips. Once
I wore red and served an open hand,

Was young and blew into reeds.
Now all the frames contain wings.

They move in my sleep. Did you imagine
This fine erosion? I entered your body

As night enters all the lit corners of a room
And lasts. Sky presses the trees

Back into the earth. I loved my own
roundness and loss. Do not forget:

There are webs and webs between us,
Tight-woven and clean.

The light is your voice, a backdrop
Of sound outside the door.

My body can hold it, shoulders bare
As the ground that used to harbor

Our steps. Without warmth in this season,
How do you think your fine mouth could exist?


Reframe the words and this picture
inhales. Witness the microscope,
narrowing on the eye until we see
only particles that swim

in dark light. They are blind.
How to account for ice in small piles,
sudden by the door, and rain
uncontainable eight thousand miles away?

Sometimes two lives coincide,
in water frozen and water
withholding the ground from our steps.
The fruit inside is bitter, skin sweet,

and both are eaten at once.
The teacup painted in pomegranate
and leaves — one touch to the lips
mars it, the body inhales

onto any surface
it can. Insects whittle their limbs
to hairs, all for music,
for habit. The heart in the mouth
another terrible seed.

No comments:

Post a Comment