Day of Making Lemons
The morning I crawl out of myself, I slip on a dress that will not terrify.
My basket full of plasticine apples and glee. I dull my corners to shine
like pale cellophane, the meat of me stuffed into a narrow casing.
Over and over, proclaiming my happy cells are dawning.
The pinwheels of my mourning, having moved to a windless town.
Rarely do I think of death while gnawing the bottom of a vanilla cone.
Even as its cold sinks my teeth into forgetfulness, I will praise the sun.
Let me worship this day even as my liver negates its poison.
The body does not remember.
The body does not linger on its trauma that lines its innards like tar.
Even as the patterns reveal themselves: the hair thick as needles,
law of predator and prey. I have been feeling so unloved but it will all be okay.
The day will carry me full of mettle. I will build a fortress of my heart.
I will make accident of every bruise. Each inherited gauze will adorn me
until my vision’s might makes explorers of us all.
We Chase Our Freedom as Ghosts
Though it was fire that ushered us into life, my palm buzzes
with an electric other. Here is a cup, which is brimming
with water, and how we go on wandering through
the unhappily without fear means we are simply growing
older, not rabid in a yellow shock. This is the trumpet
from which I am playing a song about you and everything
I know to be true as a deer crouched in a meadow
watching the forest, its trees, and white grass slowly
move towards a vibrant death in a candy egg happening.
Hold me here. I believe in god and touch without barb
that I do not waste love in the slipping night, its many
wild faces dressed in red—all useful, even without matches.