From a blindfold of lips
every particular touch
is as hurting is to grass.

On these nights, your fingers
almost sensibly
set their ask to air —

almost regrettably, tease the lotus
notion of passing, not
skin to skin

or such heat
but taking a route
rendering the half-opened flower of the mouth

something harder,
Only moments at a time

does the singing note
of my spine
rise organically;

rise again
like a snake between the eyes —

So you are fortunate
to graze the map of my thigh,

but sink hard in the head.
Make a woman

instead of some
lying leaf. Or totem of grief.


Unable Mother

Flesh, cannot fathom the words.
Though your skin might
from time to time

recover a scent, a world away
in a rhythm of white walls
where moons are tugged down

and shame
is the only principle.
O, to be so

openly naked — how to account for that?
So much of you
was sunk, bones in a bed

burying the screams,
numb to the vital
wave of vibrations.

Despite the people, and all the methods
that tried to open you out,
your abilities failed.

You couldn’t accept the natural
give, the heavy

of your uterus.
Someone had to drug
every knot in your spine

so you could hide
beyond the yellow mask
of sleep; almost in death

as the contracts in you crept
ever lower
with the infant’s head.

At her deepest point
the shadow-doctors
pulled her gory from the womb.

Despite the glorious pools
of blood, you insisted
you felt nothing — even when the last

slipped hard and white
from the vertical wound —

you couldn’t mouth the sounds.
Your innards,
like a blown flower,

totally emptied.
O, to be so

openly naked — how to account for that?