Hoorahs

Enjoy!

a secret to the ground, we heard

it knocking in the night. At daybreak

she demands pails of water,

plates of meat, then our absence.

Strong through she is, her secret

sweats her. From view

we vanish, a sea of thin

colorless smiles. She has shaved

us, we are spotted

with blood. Our snarl we save

for each other: lick your own

wounds. But our language is leaving.

If she swings a bag of black

lips, our metronomic eyes

follow. In sleep our memory

uncurls: if we give her a drop

to drink it can’t be long before

her tongue begins to wag.

Day breaks us

and we’re no longer

certain. For stale bones we seize

each other’s throats. For the traitor

will we ever stop crawling?

moon: a stage for it.

[Enter girl in mouse mask]

Then hook her like mouse.

Plasma play: redless blood. The prey of it.

[Exit mask]

Blush her bloodless

cheeks. Blind the grey of it.

[She attempts to exit. Do not let her leave]

Smile a cheekless grip-

spit smile: she’ll obey for it.

[She kneels]

Touch of tongue shuts off

a light. Gripless, she wanes with it.

[Lights directed at girl extinguish one by one]

While she sleeps, clip her

tongueless. That’s the game of it.

[Do not let her leave]

Strip her sleepless, thin-

cold, then blame for it.

[Leave her]

the shame of it.

[]

you’re there. Though hidden

well, your taste for meat bleeds

through. The eyes.

Pigeons plucked and prepared

to your liking. Naked and young:

the deer: a mirror-eyed child wanting

only to please (you) scraped her body

to skin scrap and blood. Your

eyes delighted as hers

whitened. In the orchard apples are

shrinking. Aphids double, double,

then drop. In the orchard

the sun won’t turn. You

are spoiling. The meat

inside you: already spoiled.

You still have the knife,

though you promised it gone.

You have the knives,

be advised: I know.

not ask. Grave: grass—

grey with dew like fur, and trees

grown twisted: which way are they

turning? Road swallowed by east

hills, splits west through

fog. Oh, do you hear that? Quiet.

The bone yard moons. We follow

the trees: which way are they turning?

Tallest pines lure the dark

closer. And closer, underfoot:

leaves nearly done with being

leaves. Oh! Quiet. We

smell meat don’t we, friend?

Here: roots: toward what do they

lengthen?                         Oh,

we know what lingers,

earth wolf, below the structured

stones. We smell it,

don’t we? They put it down

there: we grow

hungry. Oh, we grow

hungry and we dig.

Wholly weed-choked and asleep
like feet, so much

for repainting the wreck.
I’m again all arm or

armor, a sliver of silver is all
you’d need to bite. I burned

my shelves so they wouldn’t look
empty when I gave away my glass.

It’s not the stream that dreads
draught. Dirt blames

dirt for thirst. If a hinge creaks
I may remove the door.

Loves.

Love.

A bit more work to do, then I’m off!

Have a lovely day !