1/31/16

my advice:
brew tea, crush herbs,
circulate your bloodlike water,
unclench, unsew, allow
to breathe your tender organs





1/30/16

I turn to the throaty tongue
of the deaf woman
and see her husband
mouth his reply
unvoiced, secret





1/29/16

nightshirt, pills, notepads.
four cans of cucumber seltzer.
a fat book of crossword puzzles.
if you can buy good juju
stuff my bag with gleaming amulets.





1/28/16

the unknown is a broken 
tooth and fear the magnet 
that keeps your dumb 
tongue sweeping
over the empty socket





1/27/16

I run in the blue-black night
because I am scared, because my fears
are scrawny winter rabbits; I run,
a good dog, until I can no longer,
then sleep dreamless by the fire.





1/26/16

every time I wash his hands
he points out three peas
wheeling in the sink strainer;
during nap I fish them out
like wrinkled pearls





1/25/16

cabbage-headed peonies
clench teeth in the rain
but unfold their arms
under the tender feet
of soft-hearted ants





1/24/16

this dim weight
lead-bellied, herbicidal
lockjawed with rust:
the wash of my blood
unchained panacea





1/23/16

my body hums
with dysfunction
streetcar ligaments
buzzing with pain
ne pas toucher le third rail





1/22/16

ice floes course
the night river;
drops of milk
mushrooming
on a plate of ink





1/21/16

he speaks like it's mundane
to misremember the color
your childhood home,
to forget which forked road
took you there





1/20/16

first the tremendous 
dreadful humming of bees -
then an odd rattle 
like a fist 
pounding on a space capsule




1/19/16

this ice cell morning,
a whistle from the east -
this oil spill nightfall,
my thoughts emerge in puffs
of steam, my teeth shake





1/18/16

she is not death, but knows death:
one hand reaching through your pit of fire,
the other fanned backward like a palm leaf,
green snakes ribboned
through her swamp forest hair





1/17/16

the grey pane of water
under the overcast expanse
and between
the city like a glass transom
cranked open, dripping with steam





1/16/16

fingertip of snow
pressed against the fence,
cement glinting with salt,
and the wet black seam
where they are sewn together





1/15/16

ring of fecund women
pouring their warm, thick love -
under my coat
my hollow body clangs
like the tongue of a bell





1/14/16

wet wool smell of thawed dirt
and warming breezes-
my childish heart spelunks
into every ice pool,
slush-ringed, quartz-clear





1/13/16

no longer a baby, he fits a chair
brow studious over blocks; below
his feet dangle
like two small sparrows
frozen mid-plummet





1/12/16

we ran a merry dotted line
of footprints from fence to fence;
while he sleeps
the air goes opaque,
erases the morning's swift course





1/11/16

the day bowie died
we talked about the pretenders,
how to sneer
and yelp
with a baby on your hip





1/10/16

my oyster child
paint over this vexing grit
with salt water wash,
smooth it with the nacre
borne of my love





1/9/16

coffee-soaked morning
happy houseplants and me
humming dire straits in a pile
of sweaters, thrift store sweet
with patchouli and sunshine





1/8/16

children plop like mushrooms
in motherly laps, soft and milky;
my son arcs through the room
like a silver wire -
stray voltage, strange orbit






1/7/16

seven brick sisters
hug the hillside
black lacquer porches
entwined like
ringless fingers





1/6/16

i have always known
these sugartooth houses

the scent of skin that
lingers
around the front door





1/5/16

vein of silt, obscene
washed from the white stalk;
pale moons of celery 
to pile on your plate, pound
to threads between your tiny teeth





1/4/16

maman is out, so stay mon cher
drink rum under cock feather crown
and laugh, cigars and bay leaves
I dug your grave so forgive my touch;
poor mouth packed tight with cemetery mud





1/3/16

gray of slate, tongue of silver
a pile of grey sticks in morning fog
crust of rime, sheet-metal morning
and the momentary shock:
blue sliver of eggshell in dead grass clasp





1/2/16

matchsticks and thread
beget bone-marrow miracles
in a mile of gold foil,
the shaky latin of nuns
gone brown with age






1/1/16

scrape the pot clean,
fill your mouth with coins
and weedy greens -
bitter alchemy of
survivorship