Poetry
Dancer's a white dogwood, Dame
of the Dance, starring in parts
she plays for me, watching me
watching her through the wide lens
of my window, from the easel
of bed at the eye of my pain…
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My hair is dying. They said when it went it would go fast,
& so it drops on lacy piles on my angry shoulders, & forms
groups of grey silk threads on surfaces I would not have
thought: dashboards, my dark wood desk, the blue shining
tiles of my kitchen floor, his steadied darksleeved arm…
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By now she knows every vein, where each
rolls on blue, undrawn blood, where each is
scarred from insistent pricks of needling
darts that ripple massive webs in tiny,
hidden river runs. And so she guides the
white coat pashas to venous adits, curling
her dry tongue away from their sips of sour
wine pushed through rubber asps of tubes,
ostensibly to slay the deviant bolus masses,
still to spare some air for the breathing whole
of her…
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Tea Party
Bad odds to gamble
with my spoiling life, like
proverbial fish or house guests
after three days, so they called
a tea party, a farewell to my bones,
invitations osteo-white, dipped
in heart's ink squeezed
from the blood
of garden briars…
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