The Yolk Inside Grew Still
My lover turned his back on winter
a blue January sharp as any grief shot
through my belly, I mistook the wound
for a child, named him Jonathan
and in the hush-hush of instinct, I cradled
his thick crown against my mouth, blinked,
'Not yet child, not yet, let me rattle
your sleep with my breasts, wake up.
Wake up.' His one arm a paperweight
the other limp rope, dangled in mid-air,
acrobatic.
There is a feel, a touch suede where the blood
had dried. I stir some sixty-odd circular
moons over the vulva; waxing gibbous,
blanch memory in falter, in shudder, rogue
mother, asking doctors, 'Where is my son?'
Poor Girls' Makeup
Lipstick
a trick of the trade
is to bite the lip
enough to sting color
over the mouth,
red as tongue -
somewhat swollen
or eat a pomegranate,
prick a seed with your tooth
a) instant gratification
b) all-over lipstick.
The Lashes
petroleum jelly,
don't over mascara
or the lashes
could st ick
blind as bats
no lid open.
Blush
to match mouth and rouge;
pinch cheeks
high on their corner bone
until pink springs you flush
and you taste almost nipple.
Dear Sara and Everything After
When January spins I will have forgotten
how the other cheek turned, sharp left,
jaw hinged, your lip a riot ready to cinder.
My mind will not falter even with your eyes
all glitter more winter than snow,
certain of ice and a color, exactly joy.
When spring returns I will not remember
the sound of your name, a single song
or slight breath, I will curl my fingers
through another solstice no longer
concubine, your scent will become
nothing more than a forgotten daffodil.
When summer calls I will have tired
the moment, dried it upside down
with the heather in our kitchen,
I will become a shred of sun in a half
eaten sky, mimic devi and consequence.
Before autumn I'll have tattooed a howl
beneath my quarter-Indian eye, one blink
and two nods, dangle my way into the fall.