a pile of red skin grows on the table,
like snow or eyelashes unattached
to a wish.
The birds (of paradise) are chittering
which seems insufficient
for a poem, because it does not match
the intensity—or is it pain?—
This week I learned that every other year the Holy Ghost plants a baby seed in a married mom’s tummy. Nine months later a slit opens up underneath across the bottom and the baby slides out.
for your cadaverous jaw and thin lips, for your meticulous fingers lighting cigarette after cigarette, for your body bone sleek and for speed
What does it mean to be a voice
when what I say will be said
again or rather is being said
even now by another?
Wisteria hangs in great dollops
from the treetops,
the faint purple drapery
escorting me to Aiken and Camden
On the day my mother died, I unplugged
the stereo at a time when record clubs
still sent out their selections of the month