The Hurricane
Like a stone in the water
I sink unsound & transformed
into only a surge of light.
I don’t need to tell you that
to die is so inconvenient.
Before, I slept in a hurricane bed,
so tired of talking of the body;
the trouble of mothers &
their bad moon mouths.
Inside the space of a breath,
I become subdued by the abyss,
& irrevocably, I am given
to the furnace of the dark.
The Water Arc
I am awash
in black;
the dirty light,
& the hinge
of the crave
is limitless.
The linchpin
of memory
presses like a map
against my bones.
Yes, my bleached bones—
brittle and dried.
Still, it is true:
I am water-brained
in the arc
of the red shift.
In the Key of Black
There is a surge—a muted calling
in the dark house.
I tear the root. I sing
in the key of black.
I see my name
in the whirring of the flash.
It is so heavy
to be known.
Yes, I am still
in this dream.
I see another gun,
another humming torch
& I propel myself
toward too many shades.
Tell me: how many ways
are there to say
This is my body?
.
