More on: Poetry

I could not tell you the story of my living.
Terrific tsunami or closed cabinet of heart.

I let them choose the rock from which the water would flow.

Called across, calling;
With a receptor there.

Just like you go looking for the rainbow.

What I have decided, at least for now, is that I’m not afraid of the struggle. Jacob’s struggle with the man (or angel?) is my struggle. I’m not letting go. I’m holding on for the blessing. Blessing

Isle of femur. Of scapular curl. Isle of skull.

It’s hard not to see
everything these days as prophecy, hard
not to hear a rooster crow and not wonder
how many betrayals are underway.

Starve, he said,
attraction’s fever, fill your mouth with prayer
instead.

how
many hours did my ear sojourn to the rhythm of her yellow tongue?