Your Tincture of Time
Friday, September 3, 2021
little scar
Monday, August 16, 2021
Retro/In(tro)-
spection
inchmeal (adv)
by
inches, inch by inch, by small portions, little by little.
inanition, (n)
the
action or process of emptying; the condition of being
empty;
spec. the exhausted condition resulting from want
or insufficiency
of nourishment
Days and days before my labor was to be made its own open
and shut case feeble cracks seemed somewhere inside of me,
somewhere climbing beside the baby, and were letting clean
amniotics out through to the open world. Slow motion drain,
a sudden crush of pain and the substance was on my thigh
and busy, and ashamed, I’d mistaken it for pee. I was mad
at myself for not keeping it in, keeping it clean, the fault
obviously,
OBVIOUSLY! mine. The
baby seemed peaceful in this
dwindling sea, tight swaddle that he was. Imagine the scent
of the sea was between my legs, a tide finding the full bowl
of the cove of my pelvis and pressure cracking what all it
would.
And the illuminating moon was a tired eye, milky with
clouds,
closing the shoals, slowing the motor, bow nudging
the summits of the rocks, rudder coming undone, invisible,
underneath it all
Friday, June 7, 2019
xy
true, through the unzipped uterus) and who knew
where nobody could see you (you were so
quiet being newly alive at least on the outside) who knew
or wanted to that you were dying in there dying
almost and as as as soon as you began
so she didn't stitch them in
reminded me that they say how lust needs to become
lusty it needs to become
hunger when lungs loco-
mote with flames the first burn an untinctured
to survive, especially
to surrender even more than most only those few days old:
to wriggle shhhh beneath the scalpel Peter Rabbit
exposing your blue compacted glacier of a colon, all those micro
organisms dying into the trap of ultramarine, a pressure only
Vermeer perfected and died knowing and you made
generously inside of you so generously inside of you.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
toward mount kailash
from this hospital
of his tincture? north
mother—
mucosed carpet next to my nose, i'll
bruise the high wooden railing,
friends: meet me at the end of it all.
we'll
still
be
alive.
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Passage, Cave-in
to leap into it
and hold on,
connecting everything,
cells like stones off the wall
your body. and it's giving nothing.
not even a cry when i change
your dry, again, diaper...
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
opulent fat immaculate
at a well,
i touch it
to my lips. what else, since
you're sedated
ninety miles away,
to do with it?
Monday, December 14, 2015
a tuesday—and you are at rest
and then you are not
we drift on