And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.
O yellow eye, let me be sick with your heat, let me be feverish and frowning.
the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!
Dead drunk is the term I think of, insensible, neither cool nor warm, without a head or a foot. To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
I would like to think that no one would die anymore if we all believed in daisies but the worms know better, don't they? They slide into the ear of a corpse and listen to his great sigh.
Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
The Witch's Life" When I was a child there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she peered from her second story window from behind the wrinkled curtains and sometimes she would open the window and yell: Get out of my life! She had hair like kelp and a voice like a boulder. I think of her sometimes now and wonder if I am becoming her.
My heart is on a budget. It keeps me on the brink.
Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
I have been cut in two.
Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
Death's in the good-bye.
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