supper

In cooking chicken
Hanged heads and feet
Dry at the door
This once live thing
Lay in a bed
Of its own feathers
Fingers
Peeling skin
And broke bones
Nestled in the pot
It's own liquids
Soften timed roots
My own hands
Blood slicked
The stink of slow
Rotted flesh
Still tracked
For supper
One day
I will be
Such a thing

poetry

I lay in bed
In the dark
Nightly
Writing you poems
[I love you]
Thinly disguised
As poetry

wait

Feeling washed
Color from the glass
Curled skin
Of man-made time
Unexpected
Indecency of wait
Just alone
Capped by slats
Stabbed by finite
Moments
In counting
Wait
I am
Invisible
To you

*Photo is "Untitled (Woman and phone)" from the Kitchen Table Series by Carrie Mae Weems.

scrimshaw

My bones
Scrimshawed
Tied off
At the ends
Dropping off

"What's crackin'?"
He asked
"My bones."
I said
Listening

With tools
Of whalers
Drowning
In the harvest
Of heart's blood
Ornamenting
My bones
Marrow
For sale

tumbled

She
Butterflies
Take flight
Beneath
This
Crushed skin
My offerings
Are naught
Muse
Jester
But still
I'm tumbled
Her laugh
Her hair
Her quiet everything
I exist
She