My mother sewed three makeshift
worm shaped duffle bags out of a sail’s
canvas the day after three men in
uniform walked away from the front door
of the old Spanish house in Havana
my family owned for over a century.
They came on the very night my father
dreamt they would. They carried our permit
to leave the country. They said we were scum,
said we betrayed “Fidel” and the revolution.
A week later my parents scrambled
to buy coats in the black market because
there are no department stores or winter in Cuba,
and Madrid (or any exile for that matter)
is always cold during winter.
All they could find that would fit
a six year old boy was the coat
of a ten year old Russian girl
who died in Havana as a result
of mosquito induced meningitis.
A month later, I walked through the airport
wearing an oversized dead girl’s coat
with big square buttons, and carried
my belongings in a worm shaped canvas bag
branded with a blue partial race number on one side.
They confiscated my mother’s
wedding ring, and said that a six year old
boy dressed as a dead ten year old Russian
girl from the Moscow sailing team,
should not be traveling wearing
his grandfather’s gold crucifix.
That was the last time I cross-dressed
and also the last time I filled a sail
with something else other than wind.
DQ 7/20/07
7/30/2007
Rarely used (or failed) poetry forms
1. Falsonneta
The Falsonneta consists of anything else other than three quatrains and a couplet. The usual rhyme scheme is a-a-a-a, a-a-a-a, a-a-a-a, a-a and recited in an artificially high voice such as a shriek. In addition, Falsonnetas are written in amoebic pentameter, meaning that there are mostly 10 small single cell syllables per line, and that every other single cell syllable naturally divides.
2. Pantouhmmm…
The pantouhmmm… is composed of a series of quatrains whose lines are forgotten once spoken; the second and fourth lines of each stanza cannot be repeated as the first and third lines have been forgotten by this point.
Since there is no real structure to this form, this pattern continues for any number of stanzas, similar to a political address.
3. Balladiarrhetic
A balladiarrhetic is told or written in the form of a story, usually composed in a hurry in a public restroom. Any story form may be told as a balladiarrhetic, such as historical accounts of how pants were stained or rhetoric for ineffective pheromones. It usually has foreshortened, alternating four stress lines and simple repeating colic accents, often with a refrain.
4. Prosethetic
Prosethetic writing is usually adopted for the description of non-facts or the discussion of fake events incorporated in free flowing speech. Thus, it may be used for corporate newsletters, political speeches, tele-evangelists, love letters, debtor's notes, or famous quotes. This form is often erroneously credited to the signing of casts, or to the unusual fetish of writing free-flowing poetry on fake limbs or strap-ons.
DQ 7/28/7
The Falsonneta consists of anything else other than three quatrains and a couplet. The usual rhyme scheme is a-a-a-a, a-a-a-a, a-a-a-a, a-a and recited in an artificially high voice such as a shriek. In addition, Falsonnetas are written in amoebic pentameter, meaning that there are mostly 10 small single cell syllables per line, and that every other single cell syllable naturally divides.
2. Pantouhmmm…
The pantouhmmm… is composed of a series of quatrains whose lines are forgotten once spoken; the second and fourth lines of each stanza cannot be repeated as the first and third lines have been forgotten by this point.
Since there is no real structure to this form, this pattern continues for any number of stanzas, similar to a political address.
3. Balladiarrhetic
A balladiarrhetic is told or written in the form of a story, usually composed in a hurry in a public restroom. Any story form may be told as a balladiarrhetic, such as historical accounts of how pants were stained or rhetoric for ineffective pheromones. It usually has foreshortened, alternating four stress lines and simple repeating colic accents, often with a refrain.
4. Prosethetic
Prosethetic writing is usually adopted for the description of non-facts or the discussion of fake events incorporated in free flowing speech. Thus, it may be used for corporate newsletters, political speeches, tele-evangelists, love letters, debtor's notes, or famous quotes. This form is often erroneously credited to the signing of casts, or to the unusual fetish of writing free-flowing poetry on fake limbs or strap-ons.
DQ 7/28/7
7/18/2007
Three Rings
For five years I filled a light green
three ring binder with poems about you.
Each sheet chronologically archived
and dressed in clear plastic covers
to avoid the paper from being stained,
or damaged, or wounded by the bite
of the three hole punching machine.
Poems describing stares, kisses,
and the taste of sweat. An anthology
of lovemaking told in color and scents.
Poems about your hair and your breasts
and your thighs and how each of them
felt on my skin. Poems about fire and
dark nights filled with moon and stars.
It took five minutes on a night like that
to set the light green binder on fire.
Only the metal rings remained,
all three equally black and welded shut
small symbols of dead lovers moving on.
DQ 7/18/07
three ring binder with poems about you.
Each sheet chronologically archived
and dressed in clear plastic covers
to avoid the paper from being stained,
or damaged, or wounded by the bite
of the three hole punching machine.
Poems describing stares, kisses,
and the taste of sweat. An anthology
of lovemaking told in color and scents.
Poems about your hair and your breasts
and your thighs and how each of them
felt on my skin. Poems about fire and
dark nights filled with moon and stars.
It took five minutes on a night like that
to set the light green binder on fire.
Only the metal rings remained,
all three equally black and welded shut
small symbols of dead lovers moving on.
DQ 7/18/07
7/12/2007
The Sky is Dark Orange
The sky is dark orange,
the grass is red violet.
I walk my bicycle
with square wheels.
Blood is blue green,
my skin is light blue.
I stand awake
on my bed all day.
Oranges are dark blue.
Blueberries are yellow orange.
I have forgotten you
and I no longer love you.
DQ 7/12/7
the grass is red violet.
I walk my bicycle
with square wheels.
Blood is blue green,
my skin is light blue.
I stand awake
on my bed all day.
Oranges are dark blue.
Blueberries are yellow orange.
I have forgotten you
and I no longer love you.
DQ 7/12/7
Prayers
The waters of Biscayne Bay turn darker blue
with every inch of sea displaced by shoulder
with every stroke of paddle dug deep into the wave,
each breath breathing the pride of ancient sailors
who charged to sea by mere wonder of what
lies beyond the threshold where the water falls to the abyss.
A quest of man and 14 feet of durable plastic that will end
right back where it started, on the roof rack of the old jeep
five blocks away from home right before dinner.
But for now there are hours between dinner and horizon,
there is distance between horizon and dream, and there is me
between the dream and the reality of the jeep’s roof rack.
For now there is no asphalt, no work, no money
or street lights, no red x pin-pointing my location.
For now there is only motion of arm and wave
only the traveler’s pleasure of an unknown destination
only effort and sweat, only one breath with every stroke,
chest rising and falling like the tide and the rain
and the woman giving birth, and the meditation of the Buddha.
For now, there is a man canonized without a rosary or nails
a visionary saint without papal decree or Vatican council,
a threshold seeker displacing water and salt by shoulder,
sitting in a 14 foot cathedral made of durable plastic.
For now there is me in awe before the teal vastness of god
a small moon on the liquid ring of a distant planet.
with every inch of sea displaced by shoulder
with every stroke of paddle dug deep into the wave,
each breath breathing the pride of ancient sailors
who charged to sea by mere wonder of what
lies beyond the threshold where the water falls to the abyss.
A quest of man and 14 feet of durable plastic that will end
right back where it started, on the roof rack of the old jeep
five blocks away from home right before dinner.
But for now there are hours between dinner and horizon,
there is distance between horizon and dream, and there is me
between the dream and the reality of the jeep’s roof rack.
For now there is no asphalt, no work, no money
or street lights, no red x pin-pointing my location.
For now there is only motion of arm and wave
only the traveler’s pleasure of an unknown destination
only effort and sweat, only one breath with every stroke,
chest rising and falling like the tide and the rain
and the woman giving birth, and the meditation of the Buddha.
For now, there is a man canonized without a rosary or nails
a visionary saint without papal decree or Vatican council,
a threshold seeker displacing water and salt by shoulder,
sitting in a 14 foot cathedral made of durable plastic.
For now there is me in awe before the teal vastness of god
a small moon on the liquid ring of a distant planet.
7/10/2007
Red Giant
They say in future eons the sun
will enter its red giant phase as
hydrogen fuel in its core is depleted.
They say the sun will swell
large enough to overcome
the orbits of all the inner planets.
Earth's water will boil and
everyone will call god’s name
before being consumed by fire.
I remember you came like that
one night in September,
and it seems to me that
dying while screaming engulfed
in the luminous swell of the fire’s
combustion won’t be so bad.
DQ 7/10/07
will enter its red giant phase as
hydrogen fuel in its core is depleted.
They say the sun will swell
large enough to overcome
the orbits of all the inner planets.
Earth's water will boil and
everyone will call god’s name
before being consumed by fire.
I remember you came like that
one night in September,
and it seems to me that
dying while screaming engulfed
in the luminous swell of the fire’s
combustion won’t be so bad.
DQ 7/10/07
7/09/2007
STICKS
A poem is friction between two sticks
the by-product of rubbing poet and subject.
Example
Stick two: Me
Born on the feast of Vesta, goddess
of the hearth, patron of torrent and rush.
Lava, combustion, and lust.
Stick one: You
Female. Long hair, preferably dark.
Breast size unimportant but firm.
Ass not flat. Likes to kiss.
Poem:
Hips imitate the hammering of molten metal
heads tilt back, mouths shaped like howling.
Smoke rises from the flesh pyre.
DQ 7/8/7
the by-product of rubbing poet and subject.
Example
Stick two: Me
Born on the feast of Vesta, goddess
of the hearth, patron of torrent and rush.
Lava, combustion, and lust.
Stick one: You
Female. Long hair, preferably dark.
Breast size unimportant but firm.
Ass not flat. Likes to kiss.
Poem:
Hips imitate the hammering of molten metal
heads tilt back, mouths shaped like howling.
Smoke rises from the flesh pyre.
DQ 7/8/7
7/01/2007
Point of Arrival
When I arrived at the side of your bed
like an answered prayer, you asked me
where I’d been all night and I said
“keep your eyes closed”
so you could not see the wooden
wings attached to my wrists.
We spoke about the magnetizing force
of moon and the failing path of sunlight.
I reminded you of how light we were
the years we spent naked
and how suntanned your body was
from the fire that used to be my stare.
We spoke of the heated color of blood
and the sudden vertigo induced by lust.
Every dream has two sides
Yours, calling my name in sleep
mine, waiting for the dream call
attached to the cross of your voice
like a Daliesque St. John hovering
above the Catalonian shoreline.
DQ 7/1/7
like an answered prayer, you asked me
where I’d been all night and I said
“keep your eyes closed”
so you could not see the wooden
wings attached to my wrists.
We spoke about the magnetizing force
of moon and the failing path of sunlight.
I reminded you of how light we were
the years we spent naked
and how suntanned your body was
from the fire that used to be my stare.
We spoke of the heated color of blood
and the sudden vertigo induced by lust.
Every dream has two sides
Yours, calling my name in sleep
mine, waiting for the dream call
attached to the cross of your voice
like a Daliesque St. John hovering
above the Catalonian shoreline.
DQ 7/1/7
6/23/2007
Rings
Entrance.
There is silence in the concentric circles of tree
stumps. No leaves rustling, no branches creaking.
The light colored rings indicate a spring season.
The dark colored rings, the absence of spring.
At the center, a dark spot marks the day
the seed was buried. It mirrors a planet.
Journey.
There is movement in the thin ocean layer
of rocks. A floating desert carousel chiseled in air.
The light colored rings are the bedrock grave
of a companion moon. The dark colored rings,
the absence of moon. In the center, a mass that invented
itself when the universe formed. It mirrors a ghost.
Exit.
Fluid statue. Ripple. No fingers moving, no legs walking.
The light colored rings in the slice of a ghost
mark times it was loved as flesh.
There are dark rings for every time it was yelled at,
laughed at, cheated, beaten, tortured, or raped.
There is no center. Only the green scent of seedpods.
There is silence in the concentric circles of tree
stumps. No leaves rustling, no branches creaking.
The light colored rings indicate a spring season.
The dark colored rings, the absence of spring.
At the center, a dark spot marks the day
the seed was buried. It mirrors a planet.
Journey.
There is movement in the thin ocean layer
of rocks. A floating desert carousel chiseled in air.
The light colored rings are the bedrock grave
of a companion moon. The dark colored rings,
the absence of moon. In the center, a mass that invented
itself when the universe formed. It mirrors a ghost.
Exit.
Fluid statue. Ripple. No fingers moving, no legs walking.
The light colored rings in the slice of a ghost
mark times it was loved as flesh.
There are dark rings for every time it was yelled at,
laughed at, cheated, beaten, tortured, or raped.
There is no center. Only the green scent of seedpods.
6/12/2007
Five twists and a black hole.
There will not be a Dr. King.
His re-incarnation was pronounced dead at
an Atlanta hospital, the victim of a gun shot.
There will not be a next Krishna.
He was one of eight killed by an explosion
at a Indian house near the Pakistani border.
There will not a 15th Dalai Lama.
The small child was shot dead by
Chinese troops while fleeing Tibet.
There will be no second coming,
The boy was killed by a car bomb while
walking to school in Bethlehem.
There will not be another white Rhino.
Poachers shot the last two,
killing one and wounding the other.
…and you?...Where the fuck were you?
Laying in bed watching the news?
The globe turns its face and looks away.
DQ 6/12/07
His re-incarnation was pronounced dead at
an Atlanta hospital, the victim of a gun shot.
There will not be a next Krishna.
He was one of eight killed by an explosion
at a Indian house near the Pakistani border.
There will not a 15th Dalai Lama.
The small child was shot dead by
Chinese troops while fleeing Tibet.
There will be no second coming,
The boy was killed by a car bomb while
walking to school in Bethlehem.
There will not be another white Rhino.
Poachers shot the last two,
killing one and wounding the other.
…and you?...Where the fuck were you?
Laying in bed watching the news?
The globe turns its face and looks away.
DQ 6/12/07
5/22/2007
A Woman Always Wins
Six hundred ninety six
is really the sum of
Sappho, Plath and I.
Elizabeth: instead of
loving thee
count the ways
you come tonight.
Maya, watch us
Yin Yang the mirror
in half.
How would you
know which poet
I like?
Here is the winner:
read my pants
in Braille.
DQ 05/22/07
is really the sum of
Sappho, Plath and I.
Elizabeth: instead of
loving thee
count the ways
you come tonight.
Maya, watch us
Yin Yang the mirror
in half.
How would you
know which poet
I like?
Here is the winner:
read my pants
in Braille.
DQ 05/22/07
5/06/2007
The Sun
The title and first line of this poem are borrowed from a poem by Charles Baudelaire.
The Sun
Along the old slums where
the ruined shutters hang
a grouper exits a window
swallows a whole yellowtail
swims towards the next building.
Below the kill, a garland of algae
hangs on a barnacled street sign,
a school of sardines gathers above
the walk-don’t walk pedestrian sign
at the corner of the four lane street.
The sun shines above the waters.
It feels like summer. Year round
the mermaids lay eggs while
archeologists mermen dive kitchen
drawers seeking small tridents.
We could never agree on much
you and I. Even when mother
was ill, we argued over her health.
You said it was car sickness
I said it was years of smoking.
The doctor said it was heat stroke
the politician said she was fine
the priest said it was incest
kept blabbering the rhetoric
of how long ago they climbed
the ark two by two, and fled higher.
Even while we watched the news
we could not agree on how to keep
the polar ice caps frozen.
Now it doesn’t matter.
Even the rainbow has fled.
DQ 5/6/7
The Sun
Along the old slums where
the ruined shutters hang
a grouper exits a window
swallows a whole yellowtail
swims towards the next building.
Below the kill, a garland of algae
hangs on a barnacled street sign,
a school of sardines gathers above
the walk-don’t walk pedestrian sign
at the corner of the four lane street.
The sun shines above the waters.
It feels like summer. Year round
the mermaids lay eggs while
archeologists mermen dive kitchen
drawers seeking small tridents.
We could never agree on much
you and I. Even when mother
was ill, we argued over her health.
You said it was car sickness
I said it was years of smoking.
The doctor said it was heat stroke
the politician said she was fine
the priest said it was incest
kept blabbering the rhetoric
of how long ago they climbed
the ark two by two, and fled higher.
Even while we watched the news
we could not agree on how to keep
the polar ice caps frozen.
Now it doesn’t matter.
Even the rainbow has fled.
DQ 5/6/7
4/27/2007
Poet
To your words I am glass.
Across the clear solid
their blazing power approaches.
Penetrate without shatter.
Verbal x-rays, a testament
to your vision, which must be solar.
The cadaver of a young swimmer
is how you say floating.
A whisper buried in ice
is how you say forever.
The coals of the sky
is how you say clouds.
I would like your ink stained
handprint left on my surface.
A smudged aperture to the chest
where you words are stored.
A visible meditation to verify
your existence from here.
In your own words
through the glass, this is me
when your sun comes through:
The cadaver of a young swimmer
in the coals of the sky
a whisper buried in ice.
DQ 4/27/07
Across the clear solid
their blazing power approaches.
Penetrate without shatter.
Verbal x-rays, a testament
to your vision, which must be solar.
The cadaver of a young swimmer
is how you say floating.
A whisper buried in ice
is how you say forever.
The coals of the sky
is how you say clouds.
I would like your ink stained
handprint left on my surface.
A smudged aperture to the chest
where you words are stored.
A visible meditation to verify
your existence from here.
In your own words
through the glass, this is me
when your sun comes through:
The cadaver of a young swimmer
in the coals of the sky
a whisper buried in ice.
DQ 4/27/07
4/26/2007
While We Wait for Mae
Lava in a dress, culprit of brimstone,
everything beyond the tip of your
eyelash burns. Make your body shake
from the shoulders down in
sinusoidal liquid smoke. Shimmy.
Where does the sun set?
Not here.
We're not like
those who fear the slow
pressure cooking of your gaze.
Where does the sun set?
Not here. We're not crouching
behind a faux stage.
We do not crave
sleep, or vaudeville,
or the bodice of spring.
We look to the solstice
and wilder things
in the direction of the set.
Sexsette.
Where does the sun set?
Not here, not exactly.
We came upstairs to see
the dazzling tulips one last
time but got lost in your dress.
A thousand suns were
sewn in the rosewood
mold of a guitar.
EN/DQ 4/25/07
(a collaboration between Edward Nudelman and DQ)
everything beyond the tip of your
eyelash burns. Make your body shake
from the shoulders down in
sinusoidal liquid smoke. Shimmy.
Where does the sun set?
Not here.
We're not like
those who fear the slow
pressure cooking of your gaze.
Where does the sun set?
Not here. We're not crouching
behind a faux stage.
We do not crave
sleep, or vaudeville,
or the bodice of spring.
We look to the solstice
and wilder things
in the direction of the set.
Sexsette.
Where does the sun set?
Not here, not exactly.
We came upstairs to see
the dazzling tulips one last
time but got lost in your dress.
A thousand suns were
sewn in the rosewood
mold of a guitar.
EN/DQ 4/25/07
(a collaboration between Edward Nudelman and DQ)
4/17/2007
Celeste
“I am haunted by Azure, Azure, Azure, Azure”
S. Mallarme
Serene splendor of the wind,
the scent of lavender is overwhelming
Slow machine of perpetual mantra,
the sea is overwhelming.
Silent dome of everness,
the sky is overwhelming.
There! in the azure…
a living poem floats among petals
of seaweed. It must be Ophelia.
No. It is someone else.
I have come face to face
with Venus’ shimmer
reflected on the ocean’s swell.
Her eyes are overwhelming.
DQ 04/15/07
S. Mallarme
Serene splendor of the wind,
the scent of lavender is overwhelming
Slow machine of perpetual mantra,
the sea is overwhelming.
Silent dome of everness,
the sky is overwhelming.
There! in the azure…
a living poem floats among petals
of seaweed. It must be Ophelia.
No. It is someone else.
I have come face to face
with Venus’ shimmer
reflected on the ocean’s swell.
Her eyes are overwhelming.
DQ 04/15/07
4/08/2007
Ars Poetica
“A poem should not mean, but be.”
Archibald MacLeish
The chime exhumes a single note.
It is your voice.
A nightingale sings in bird
speak. My ears squint, I sing.
Ghosts touch each other unaware.
Eyes and words do the same.
Every night dreams are sacrificed
to the sun. The moon is proof.
Two images collected in a puddle.
Mine above. Yours below
a pale shadow buried in mud.
In my eyes, a tinge I never saw before.
DQ 4/8/7
Archibald MacLeish
The chime exhumes a single note.
It is your voice.
A nightingale sings in bird
speak. My ears squint, I sing.
Ghosts touch each other unaware.
Eyes and words do the same.
Every night dreams are sacrificed
to the sun. The moon is proof.
Two images collected in a puddle.
Mine above. Yours below
a pale shadow buried in mud.
In my eyes, a tinge I never saw before.
DQ 4/8/7
4/05/2007
Nepenthe II
Eternity is the immortal
soul-kiss of your body
pressed upon my hand
aphrodisiac whisper
residue of rainbow, perfumed
hue between my fingers.
Tomorrow I’ll question whether
the scent is yours or mine,
forget the world for a moment or two.
Right now, there are chimes
and bells strung on this
tightrope that binds us
this fragrant silk web
pathway of angels
colored ripened rose.
DQ 04/5/07
soul-kiss of your body
pressed upon my hand
aphrodisiac whisper
residue of rainbow, perfumed
hue between my fingers.
Tomorrow I’ll question whether
the scent is yours or mine,
forget the world for a moment or two.
Right now, there are chimes
and bells strung on this
tightrope that binds us
this fragrant silk web
pathway of angels
colored ripened rose.
DQ 04/5/07
3/23/2007
Keepsake
I keep a small pebble
in a shoe box labeled “last kiss”.
The box sits on a shelf in my closet
among scrapbooks and dust.
There is one less rock traveling
the sky. I saw it blister the riverbed,
a scarlet trail hissing behind it
before being extinguished
by the water’s numbing lips, which
through slow years of contact
polish the scarabs and birds of
hieroglyphics into unsaid words.
The last time we met
you blew a kiss into your hand
and threw it out of the car window
towards where I stood.
It went in my mouth and
rolled down my throat like moonshine.
A small seed of your ghost blistering
somewhere inside me, a scarlet trail
of incense hymns to Lazarus.
Here it is after years of coughing
in a shoe box labeled “last kiss”.
The whole universe is in there.
DQ 03/23/07
in a shoe box labeled “last kiss”.
The box sits on a shelf in my closet
among scrapbooks and dust.
There is one less rock traveling
the sky. I saw it blister the riverbed,
a scarlet trail hissing behind it
before being extinguished
by the water’s numbing lips, which
through slow years of contact
polish the scarabs and birds of
hieroglyphics into unsaid words.
The last time we met
you blew a kiss into your hand
and threw it out of the car window
towards where I stood.
It went in my mouth and
rolled down my throat like moonshine.
A small seed of your ghost blistering
somewhere inside me, a scarlet trail
of incense hymns to Lazarus.
Here it is after years of coughing
in a shoe box labeled “last kiss”.
The whole universe is in there.
DQ 03/23/07
3/03/2007
Multimedia in Canvas
I work on small sections at a time.
Crayons scribbles in a corner.
Round face stick figures smiling,
some of which have faded.
I weaved shoe laces and sewed
buttons on it, some which tore,
or fell where the canvas weakened.
Small little lies repaired, pasting colored
patches from other paintings on the rip.
I also pasted post-it notes in random
places. Some with names written
in pencil, some in ink.
Post-it notes fall. They stick to my shoe.
I drag them when I walk by, loose
them in the piss of public restrooms,
loose them in dog shit while I walk the dog.
In the center, oils, Alizarin crimsons,
Indian reds are tediously mixed. They
join with no line of demarcation.
They streak like blood spill, the
color of her lips.
One day I’ll complete the piece.
I’ll see it from behind held up to the light,
and forget where to find the artist’s signature.
DQ 3/3/7
Crayons scribbles in a corner.
Round face stick figures smiling,
some of which have faded.
I weaved shoe laces and sewed
buttons on it, some which tore,
or fell where the canvas weakened.
Small little lies repaired, pasting colored
patches from other paintings on the rip.
I also pasted post-it notes in random
places. Some with names written
in pencil, some in ink.
Post-it notes fall. They stick to my shoe.
I drag them when I walk by, loose
them in the piss of public restrooms,
loose them in dog shit while I walk the dog.
In the center, oils, Alizarin crimsons,
Indian reds are tediously mixed. They
join with no line of demarcation.
They streak like blood spill, the
color of her lips.
One day I’ll complete the piece.
I’ll see it from behind held up to the light,
and forget where to find the artist’s signature.
DQ 3/3/7
3/02/2007
The Beautiful
Woman standing by the podium
shirt rolled under your breasts
exposed belly stretched
an inch from birth.
You strike the lump
in the uterus with
fists and rage until you
become a living body bag.
You squat over the recycling bin
and drop another child.
God shed His grace on thee
and crown thy good with brotherhood
from sea to shining sea.
There he is returning home in uniform
with your flag over his casket
resting in the ancient silence of the womb.
DQ 03/01/07
shirt rolled under your breasts
exposed belly stretched
an inch from birth.
You strike the lump
in the uterus with
fists and rage until you
become a living body bag.
You squat over the recycling bin
and drop another child.
God shed His grace on thee
and crown thy good with brotherhood
from sea to shining sea.
There he is returning home in uniform
with your flag over his casket
resting in the ancient silence of the womb.
DQ 03/01/07
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