There are grooves and holes
In rose rock.
They were alive before you and I
Came by
And briefly unclasped our hands
To touch them.
They are alive within the airless space
Of now.
They’re wrinkles
On the face of history.
History is a tired woman.
History stands by the side of the road,
Her cheap necklaces toll for you.
One I strangled with the pearls
You once dived for in a boutique.
One I rammed with a creaking taxi
(Prayer beads over the rear view mirror
Nancy on the stereo).
One I left out in the night,
When the desert cooled off
And the spit of the dogs
Grew hotter.
I spoon you into my mouth,
Fingers twitching
At the handle.
Tablecloth violated
By sweet little drops
And spills.
Until the moment
Of no more,
No more.
You say you wanted a happy surprise,
A jewel in a piece of sugared dough,
Something to crack a molar on and more.
A life that’s a feast fit for a troll,
A grain of sand that’s bursting with the world,
- All the things you say you want.
I flew miles and miles to reach your bed,
Where men speak a different language and women say nothing at all.
Here night crouches at the threshold like a hungry cat,
There the eyes of stars are bloodshot with the dawn.
The back of your head contains sweetness I’m afraid will spill,
I’m always chasing it in a crowd.
It’s like a high a young, toothless woman mumbles about,
When she accepts an offer of a cigarette and remembers better days.
Someone stole
The sugar from the bowl -
On the little backs of ants,
Or the shiny beaks of crows.
I will shake my futile fist
Or I will rip my yellow hair;
It won’t matter, it won’t come,
Once it is no longer there.
People in the news
Look tired of themselves.
Tired of being fondled,
Like children minded by
The wicked Uncle Ernie.
It’s a long way to travel -
From a hospital drop-off lane in Gaza or Kinglake
Through fiber optic cable.
They’re shuffling their feet
On someone’s living room threshold. Read More
I’m glad you didn’t know me before,
Back when I was a vampire with a hungry rattle in the throat.
The night was like a sock wedged on the head;
If I could, I would have turned it back.
I have weathered and leathered my hide,
I’m just a wraith now, love,
Wraiths don’t bite.
My teeth are glittering in a glass
Like jewels from a woman’s neck.
God, how I hate the blood in this town, Read More
Rose water,
Rose water,
Why did she have a daughter?
Why not another boy?
Flowers blooming in the water
In a pail for the dead.
Strange these flowers,
Like limp hands;
Rubied like
Old drying wounds.
When the blood coagulates
There will be no more rose water Read More
I am not a woman who
“Handles the servants well,”
But I do not long for the strange liberty,
Or even the hotly whispered possibility,
Of leaving West Amman.
“Never look back,” Omar said,
But what if looking forward is not an option either?
The only thing you see there
Is the dust beneath your feet.
Anyway, Omar, you still married some idiot: Read More
