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Unpitched & underpublished.
a catholic once told me
that as a child
he knew the shape of god:
a frail man, wounded
the method of his Horture
appropriation of His death
ah, then i think my god has always
been calligraphy,
golden names or virtues
whispered in circles
a perfect number just beyond
another tongue's abstraction
everything so close to nothing
as spied in jabir's gyre
JELLY
it takes a french curve --see?
the flare of the tennis skirt
in front versus back
hiked as if beckoning
(& this is why mom called me fast: for having a body)
i spend a lot of time asking
why are leggings flat?
who has straight legs
(besides Sally the Witch)?
this slit ia not enough, why?
how do I become a pencil?
should i, must i be hobbled?
maybe lessness is freedom (more like a boy)
because there is not enough
my lucky fighting panties gingerly
meet the bus seat
& my brown bottom contemplates
being made wanted by an unbrown vulture
(though we were before
& will be after
(before knives and without)
the waistband too takes the longer route
along the french curve
dips like a body aggrieved,
like a grunt, surprised:
i didn't expect to carry this much
DIOTIMA
we bough-limbed things
she knows my fathers' fears
i know wind & hunger,
tangle friction heat
where our cores meet
oil with sweat & sunshine
she is high yellow,
i'm high on her
hearts jitter in separation
like each other's children
while each other's mothers
we gazelle
this ripe body
bruises delicious mementos.
to carry & carry
legs pump & straighten
arch or low, test & tense
potential fall
from rest into love
from an angel to sin
a stranger calls out
a pant like this a want from the street
she or me or both? we pound on.
