there's a place

a blue and quiet place 

that could shake you wide open

and make your teeth feel loose

there's a sound

like footsteps or a heartbeat

that might send you kicking tulips 

and bend you like a willow

there's a rock

sunk deep inside your belly

that sometimes sets you swimming

in those rivers that run northward

and it moves you to sing

oh, my shining antimony

and it moves you to cry

oh, my shining antimony 

sunshine and screendoors 

sweeping

salt-skinned 

sweet as sugared pansies

cold cucumber kisses

calling 

clairvoyant

crystalline and cresting waves

windchimes and whippoorwills

whispering

weightless

wide and westward light

honeysuckle harmonies

hallowing

heavenward

holy and hushed as home

in the cathedral for outlaws

the buckle of your bible belt sings

silver as birch leaves before the flood

and just as loudly

and where i am 

white-knuckled as the paper bark

waiting on the thunder-smacks

and the i love yous

and where you are

the calm before the storm 

blue-gray books of revelations 

in your ears and in your eyes--

may our mouths move 

in the shape of novenas;

may our dirt-covered feet 

point eastward

You always keep me somewhere in between,

right where you know I'll always be when you need me.

I always fall for your safe kisses late at night

and all those times you pull me close and say

"this feels so right.”

But I fell too many times,

and I know I deserve more than being stuck in your game

of just another convenient late night friend.

there are black-dark 

and dripping shadows

in the moonless corners of my eyes

momentary, melting ink blots

a makeshift mind whispering 

tiny tricks of mourning silks

i am only a tired surgical experiment

with one foot in the curdling soil 

of the churchyard after nightfall and

these nights there's a tall man

with a heavy brown hat and 

gull-eyes i swear are real

rising from white mist like

sea-spray gone awry

a spectral souffle of dead flesh

he might stare from doorways while i sleep

he might grip my white throat until i wake

(pale and voiceless and water-eyed)

there's one hundred tiny ants 

seanced and swarming 

in a rotting black boil

on the closet floor 

with the wormy pine 

shall i feed him my terror

piece by piece 

to appease his crooked smile,

that crusty vigil?

then in dawn's derisive, jaundiced glow 

just wet and murky footprints

on the swollen hardwood

muffled moonshine and oil drips

two hundred drowned mice 

and black teeth beneath me

but this is no sumpter to dredge

and that old man will find no gold here

all muck and sand and spoiled snails so

mama sparkles holy water

six ways til sunday

(pour it in a glass mama, 

let me drink it up)

her mouth swirling psalms

she slips rosary beads 

beneath my pillow

to help me dream 

of something lighter

but the weight 

of three hundred locusts 

on my rooting chest 

spins my breaths shallow

and no one's arms, 

not the lord's

not the ghost's

not even his

can lift it 

this is ouija-sins 

and sweeping second hands

this is 3ams 

and army barracks

this is me seeing things 

that are not there

(i wish you would unearth me like 

the graverobbers do -- steal all my gold

then leave me to rot)

light the sage daddy, please light the cedar

and let the smoke carry me to sleep this time

I back down the hallway, my six-year-old mind a muddled mess. My feet slide on something wet and I look down. There are smears of red stuff, like paint, all over the ground. Oh no, Mommy will be so upset. She just mopped the floor yesterday.

Then I hear footsteps on the creaky floor. Heavy footsteps, like Daddy's. But the man coming around the corner was not Daddy. He has golden hair that looks like it's glowing. Over his shoulder, I see white things moving as he walks slowly toward me. An angel? Has he come to save me?

I relax. Maybe the angel will fly me away to live on the clouds. I look towards the angel, and he holds out his hand. 

 Just before I step forward and take it, I notice something weird.

The angel has red paint on the tips of his wings.

my cal calls closely

and i'm all calla-lilies 

and calendula

or cool clarinets 

and clammy calligraphy

when he then calms me

such carved calabash 

or calamari, he is 

a classic canvas

this morning i awoke

with the head of an axe behind my left eye

and a searing lightning in my skull

remembering that time my daddy killed

the snake in the grass with the old shovel--

he cut that question mark clean in half

this afternoon i searched

for sharp objects with my eyes closed

and swallowed tiny metallic moons

only pitching them to rise again

on terrible, foamy whitecaps

that used to make me afraid of sinking

but i've become used to their currents now

tonight i was fixing to celebrate

the anniversary of my great undoing

one full planetary churn

since my head brimmed and bubbled

with thunder and gunshot and seasickness

three hundred sixty five wretched days floating like an unsure bobber

and i still can't rest easy these nights

there, tomorrow, in the cathedral dawn

i'll toss my heart in a dark bait bucket

with the fetid snake guts and the minnows

and the bloody pieces of me and you

they took away--

then row quietly to the cove,

the one with the water lilies

and i'll shed them all quickly overboard

to sink and sleep at the bottom

with my terror and the leggy weeds

(then maybe, as the fog is lifting,

i will float softly backwards past the willow

to my father's house before the kitchen light

has even clicked on)

there were three wooden doors

before the one that led to 

your quiet bedroom

with the black and gray quilt

there were glossy trumpet notes

that floated upwards

past your window

jarring and incandescent 

there were lights that scattered

dancing and howling above us

red like warm hands

blue like your sweater

there were those soft ways 

you took my unmade, fumbling heart 

and stuck it back together

with a little spit and some dreams

there were pearly afternoons

on castle island

watching planes take off in pink light

while you fed me milkshakes 

there were starchy nods from first martyrs

four hundred twenty two steps

upon saint stephen's street

from your door to my window

i'm sorry you suffered

there are times now when

i put my mouth on the mouth

of some man whose eyes 

remind me of yours

they have a bit

of the frozen Charles in them 

but the dirty ice

isn't quite thick enough yet

to stand upon