Poetry

Is this History, he said.
No, she said, it’s beyond
that door. The exit sign

also shows a way
in.

Gleaned from battlefield. See fade. See shutter as relic. Black cloth. Wisp. Tendril.
Lash. The stain that used to breathe.

Listen, cochlea: invite nightfall’s curtains
to weave their moths in your chambers.

The only drums you need beat on
inside the body’s cage, and even then will stray

first fire took hold
of my right hand later I learned
how to dry the tears of the blisters
without screaming then I began to say
thank you to the raw glove each morning

If it were,
though I much doubt it,
wouldn’t it be less leaf
than breeze, more winter
than summer, and nothing to
weigh it down—

No need of light,
he knows the subject well enough
for years has shaved
without a mirror, his fingers practicing
the planes and contours—

Monday and the kind of cold outside
that darkens needles
on the evergreens,
makes blood sluggish in its veins.

It is best not to talk about this
which is why I am scribbling it
on the sole of my Manolo.
I met one of them in Plaidtown.

One way to tell if you are, in fact, Donna Haraway, is to consider whether you
use the phrase, “We are all ________________.”

Beyond the pane: dark suspends and a forlorn look
crosses the day’s face. Beyond the pane: two Blue Jays
pop from the belly of the lilac bush. Backs cerulean
flowing cobalt, flowing aquamarine—
limitless colors