Body and Book
Cambium bands, my wanderness wilderings…
why are you swaddled in water weeds, book?
Your mound opens, freshly. Bottom feeder,
born with a knotted tongue, I bow to you,
child of whatness. Changing your rice paper
underpants I notice a foul gash and stitch you
with a fox-bone needle. I press a milkweed pack.
You lengthen into me and my chest
becomes a maiden’s cones, hair in spit curls,
thighs locked and back arching.
Hold me tight as we dance, hermaphrodite,
your pages encrusted with salty mucus.
Milkweed runs rivulets. Sign of light,
being in water hoops, asleep I read
sumacs for pillows. Like Ezekiel’s wheel
a painting descends from the sky,
snapping limbs. In a poplar grove ink
babies float down unrolling the canvas
in tandem, a massive sheet revealed
by spidery lightning, whipped by gusts.
Embers of characters burn on tree
stump faces—I praise these ideogram lines,
engraving language in sick heartwood.