5. "the labyrinth"
a cable is
a set of questions
proud of complexity
i pick at a stitch
to set it free
In response to Via Negativa: Microcosm.
Increments
4. "the weather being extreme
and without hope"
our new work
is shredding
every circumstance
of our past lives
In response to Via Negativa: Microcosm.
Increments
3. "on the tree of my finger"
i work
diligently
on my desires
all day
at the end
i measure
their weight
in crumbs
In response to Via Negativa: Microcosm.
Increments
2. "two gardens one garden no garden"
i am waiting
for the shadows under the tree
to fold themselves into shapes
with wings
In response to Via Negativa: Microcosm.
Increments
1. "the labyrinth within me
is a bomb"
how can it be
that this morning,
the crepe myrtle
is bursting with
pink froth
In response to Via Negativa: Microcosm.
Gacela of Mornings after Rain
Midway through summer, when crepe myrtle
blossoms are most profuse before they fall—
In the center of the house, there's no window from which
to view the torrent that unpins them before their fall.
Rain compounds its sums on the roof: brittle hail of
asterisks fragmenting at the core before their fall.
That's how we come into the world and also how we leave:
bright blush, loud cry, one last kiss before the fall.
Will you ease my coverlet, will you brush my hair
and fill my jars again with copper before I fall?
Casida of Always Wanting
Do I want milk, do I want apples,
or do I want a plate of sliced green
mangos to dip in salted shrimp?
Is the sleeve of one shirt torn,
do the hems of my trousers
tongue open above my ankles?
Has the sea come with a message,
has the gull lifted the bandage
from its cheek? The bees that forage
in the coffee groves bring back
a honey tinged with bittersweet. Their
industry thickens in the jar
and I return night after night to dip
my finger into its depths.
Listen to the Recordings on SoundCloud of Gorillas Singing Little Food Songs to Themselves
A scientist describes one of these
as the equivalent of a sigh of
contentment, and the other a low
frequency hum. Also, how adorable
is it that they make up different
songs for different foods? Perhaps
not so adorable: how it's mainly
alpha male silverbacks that sing
to express enjoyment while
they eat; how typical. What about
the females—do they hum the songs
they compose under their breath,
do they sing with other females,
together in a bower of green stalks
or by the water as they groom each
other's hair? What they do is
supposed to show how, like ours,
their bodies instinctively
make sounds to indicate
awareness of life's varied
textures and flavors: moans
or yelps, prolonged groans
that inform anyone within ear-
shot that here in the mouth is
a moment of such particular
relish, or in the toenail
a splinter of unbearable
agony. Who knows if they call
each other names like sweet pea
or cupcake, sugar pie or honey-
bun; if it's the ripe calabash
or the pulpy soursop that elicits
the most ecstatic songs, second only
to the gurgling that infants make as they
drink the milk, before their eyes glaze
and their heads loll back in pleasure.
In the camps, they are told to drink from toilets
They don't want to wear
our silence like rings
on their fingers.
Water must be clean
and come from natural
sources, even for
the parched throats
of crickets: say dew
drops on early morning
leaves, the tears of faraway
glaciers calving. Merciful
rain coming down.
Let them be soaked instead
in those kinds of sheets.
And Honey
As in Land of, or half
the name my people gave this
place when they imagined
how it would feel to arrive
at a destination different from
one ordained at birth—
It's easy to admire those who have no
difficulty securing passage, easing
into a tongue practiced in schools
with toilets and running water. It's easy
to shame those who believed the lies, who sold
the family farm, the water buffalo, the agate
beads and heirloom jars. Those who traded
two seasons for four, one leafed in russet and
gold as vegetation entered into a long quietus
they came to understand didn't necessarily mean
death. Apples redden and fall in a hundred orchards,
and bees propel themselves into a riot of flowers.
All that must be gathered is nearly level with
the earth, and requires a bending. All I'm saying
is some don't need to think twice, dipping the spoon
into the sweet. Some walk the rows long after sun-
down, or lower the netting over their faces before
counting the jars and hefting crates onto trucks.