He Needs a Stage or a Pedestal or a Pinnacle
In my sack I place an inventory: cartilage, cracked skull,
thumb, belt buckle, femur, bicuspid, shin, pelvis, scalp tuft.
The hero does not look like himself here, disjointed earth fruit
poised against nothing but the material of sack. I want power
for him more than I wanted to turn a cock into gold.
So I shake the contents. My memory spits a cloud into grief.
He is lucky I want to depict him as whole. He is lucky I slip
into calling him you. The bones rattle their botched future,
man’s time doesn’t freeze so much as it Cordyceps to privilege. For example:
I was so sad to see you go I cut myself on the blade of gone.
My belly blossoms under the pebbles I’ve swallowed to keep dignity.
And the dignity of men is so important, a profligate red
beams from my throat. The distance I crave necessitates holy
striations, a coin that should roll from one hyperbole to the next.
I have asked to take residency in the mission of reconstruction:
Eden is covered in wet bathroom tiles, cracked with fecal dazzle
scenting the city with its small magazines. A worship as occupied
as its water damage. You see I have taken my sack here
and gazed into the sprouted dark, I lick at the botulism,
I hum in the warfare I’ve attempted to unweave and find
the man’s song gentle, his nickel rolls such gentle, gentle song.
—Originally published in jubilat
(forthcoming from Noemi Press; winner of the 2016 Noemi Press Contest)
Swan Feast (2015)