I have no hope, but I will speak, Job said.
I will break my teeth on this world,
and spit the bloody chips out in your face,
you who made this, you who made us
for all these good gifts you gave us.
I have this faith:
to come to you, to hold out my fist full
of hot rage, to say
this is no justice,
to open my fist up in your face
if you will not be just, we have no justice
if you will not be tender, we have no tenderness
if you will not hear us, we have no hope
the world will not bear the weight of us,
of all this wickedness
done upon us, and by us: it's
too many graves to count
these days, these days, these days.
Do you count them, God,
these graves?
I.
The sea is a metaphor. You’re not the first
to
fear your drowning, when hungry grief
washed
in—not the first who lost her feet
to
fall, head over heels, stomach whirled,
mouth
full of salt. Not the first who couldn’t breathe,
who
swallowed and swallowed, while the sea hurled
itself
behind your teeth, grasping, all thirst
past
your gulping throat. All sharks, all teeth:
You
could not hold it in your belly.
The sea is
the sea.
You
swam out, once, from the white sand beach
till
the waves changed to a wide, wild mouth
swallowing
and swallowing. Tumbled upside down
into
a whirl of belly, bones, and teeth
drowned
and spit out with shells on the white beach.
II.
If
I drowned--if my soft body went to feed
the
sea’s small creatures, tumbled my teeth
(jagged,
bleached white for once) onto the beach
to
be gathered like shells—
To be palm-tossed
for futures, pressed into sandcastles, forgot—
Regathered
(seagathered)--Fragment, I would not
recall
eating (like any beast) enough
of the world’s live things--nor of the grief
I
broke my teeth on. No one dies of grief,
but
if I drowned, would the hungry things say grace?
Gulped down, drowned, steadily unfleshed--
you’d remember my rough edges, my name
salt-sharp behind your teeth. And I--
my softness swallowed, my bones washed--I
would not.
I’m April’s fool, tumbled
wide eyed into violets
and velvet bees
when April’s full. Head
over heels, a beetle
burrowing, a bee
big as a thumb, pollen drunk
headfirst in silk
skirted blooms.
Fall into April, itch
behind your eyes and throat,
fragrant, busy.
Fumble full and buzz
from bloom to bloom,
to mushrooms
fruiting phallic, frogs
chirp. World's turning flips,
purple, gold
jingling at the toes. I'm
singing, unembarassed,
upside down
I’m April’s fool now, tumbled
as any beetle, any bee,
legs beckoning,
itching, pollen hoarse
raw eyed and tearful,
I'll uncurl
here, ramhorn coils unwinding
into an unprotected slug,
so tender-soft
even the fat white grubs feel
dear, the greedy babes.
I'm down
to earth now, peering, full
(O fool) of
Love
It feels like dying, this new life you gave,
this roughskinned seed of faith. I'm like a stone
caught in your throat. You said you'd save
sinners, not the righteous. Your name tastes
burned and bitter in my mouth.
You said you wouldn't leave us, here, alone.
Your blood's dried sticky, bitter on my teeth--
the hot salt lump of meat caught in my throat.
I gulp and choke. It's not meat my body needs,
not this raw gore. I wanted bread and wine.
You said this is my body: take and eat.
I take you into myself. My stomach turns
outside itself, revolts. I'd throw you up
like the beast revolted Jonah onto the earth,
to preach your gospel to some shithole shanty town
poor enough to pray for your new birth.
I drink you like gold ash: precious, poison.
Crawl like a fly, tasting the burned dirt with my feet
to crystal streams, where praise warps into noise,
salt in my ears.
I hate it here.
I hate it here.
And you, still, say Come. Say,
Take and eat.
I dreamed I lay me down to sleep
And did not rise again;
Whatever tears my lovers wept
They watered me like rain.
I was a garden, in my bed--
I melted into earth
While all the loves I ever had
Crawled through me like white worms,
And all the loves I ever loved
Sprang up, like seeds to sun,
Alive, unlost, though I forgot
Their names as I dissolved.
Blessed are the poor in spirit
or maybe that's just the poor
i need more spirit, that's for sure
i don't feel blessed
i'm not the best
at love. Ineffective,
recursive. I sit
like slick
black grease. Greed,
or grief. I need
less of myself, more
spirit. Sipping spoons
of my own sins--no prophet,
I meant
to sing you songs,
not this lament
of middle age
unwomanhood, ungrown
to fruitfulness,
curling the same sour leaves.
Bees leave my flowers alone,
they don't taste sweet.
Escapist, weak willed, it's soap in my throat,
acid bitter, acedia
medication
mental masturbation
shame's as good as any reason
to turn away from all this
shit--
Good God, the self pity
was bad enough at eight, at twelve, sixteen
At thirty it's obscene
as a newborn crowning, streaked
with chalky grease, red and white
helpless, sinless, hungry
to gape for suck and wail.
Will you, God, mother us
at your own breast
when we so streaked and shameless scream?
Will you, till we rest?
