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
