It’s never why
it’s only when
the extra letter
fits the pain
a man
a tree
a long-haired girl
remind you of the moon
you once believed
but now you don’t
all courage in an empty cup
you drink to him
gall is made
from wine
gone bitter
in a broken heart
you turn away in shame
Narcissus at the touching pool
enthralled by what he sees–
beauty is the beast
I take you
back a
thousand
times a day
and let you
go because
it is my way
all your red
is just an
artifact of blue
what I really love is death
you weren’t
real because
you weren’t him
small gods are not the ones to love
and so I cast
my lyre into the
sea and tuck
my head beneath
my wing–a bird
standing on one leg
I wait beneath a paper tree
for death to comfort me
all hair
and teeth
and bone
she is the
rhythm in
this poem
her days
are numbered
she stops
to slow
them down
the old cowpath
the barrels
the apple tree
the gray porch
her father
coming home
carrying
his bones
the men on
the loading dock
calling her name
this is what she remembers
a young girl’s life
danger everywhere
a woman’s crying
the redness of it
tears for something torn
a favorite dress
a picture of an old love
a memory
a
shell
casing
tumbling
through
thick air
a dog dead on
her front lawn
behind her
footsteps
scuttling leaves
backs raised
ready to pounce
everything is
dangerous tonight
sound hurts
All these
moons I’ve
painted that
bring no light–
the sun,
the stars,
the sky,
they can
not see
that I am
standing still.
These things
I dream are
dreamed for
someone else–
the bitter fruit,
the barren tree,
the songless bird
are all for me.
I wear them well
around my neck
until I cannot breathe–
I will not stay to
see them leave.
Who reads this
poem cannot
know me–
I didn’t bury
birds they
buried me.
On fire in
the afternoon,
a woman
in a shroud
is cleaning
her own skull
of its flesh;
she has
dug herself
up and is
burning in
the bright
daylight.
Polished bone
is mirroring
back what is
left of her face.
Holes are
everywhere–
eyes,
ears,
mouth–
no one has
heard her voice
for years.
Buried,
disinterred
and buried
again;
now, she
can speak
of return–
silence,
smoke,
intimidation,
incineration,
tapping bone,
bird song,
hard stone,
conflagration–
and of the
day he came
carring a
small lyre.
rlmcdermott 