the giver of life / the giver of death

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

poems about having a booty


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

erotic poems about my bike


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.