Under the forehead
a waterfall and nymphs
sing cream
fingers
at my chest, in my pants
shafts of clotted ice
piercing heart
and penis.
This is delirium
this vacancy
a clawing at air
life in abeyance
head buried
in arms
that seem butter
from the lamp’s weak
glow, then sea foam
as restless turnings
move a bloated
carcass closer
to its brink.
I reside here, one
at a time, hung
by sloth toes
till pain reams out
my stomach
and I rise
shuffling slippers
to the bathroom
where old piles ache
and bleed
a garden storm
of nothing but
nothing’s first joy.
Objects, like remorse
for things unsaid,
people undone,
are defined
by their absence
the stumble from loss
into sudden
color, green
and gold tiles
that slam my head
backward until I am
dizzy as a housefly.
A hole: a fire: a fetus
carved from loam
curved like a frog
nosing lily pads
blooming mind
from holy
water:
roses grown
around the steel
stem idea of a rose
thorny self-defense
from debris of other
poses, old enemies
who dip bandages
in tears, school
girls gutted
on creation.
Again, again
(cannibal rite)
I suckle my breath
then race to the throne
of vein-less butts far
from ordinary lives
outside, an opaque
window maze
where wives whistle
their lovers home
and cats hump each
other hairless, a jungle
bled soft as clouds
before frozen
into art.
___
Edward Butscher is the author of first biographies of Sylvia Plath and Conrad Aiken, as well as shorter books on Adelaide Crapsey and Peter Wild, much criticism, and several books of poems, most recently, Eros Descending.
Monday, September 29th, 2014 5:27 pm
Categories: Issue 8.2, Poetry
