Bad Laundry Day

Shadows of man all over –
the floors, in the closet
I left open to exorcize him,
yet he’s out there, in your love.
But he’s no ghost, not lost
as this transparent stain
on my clothes. I can’t wash so
I do my hair, I think I’m pretty
enough to turn off the creeping
spirit, but no – he’s taken over.
Within your eyes, he came
divine, like an idol, or a bust –
all roads lead to his offerings.
I wash my skirts again, having
lost, in every manner he is gone.
Where he homes I cannot haunt,
and my girly hands fade my touch.

Post-Construction #1

(for C.)

Sister – they built you in a fist
bundling pain, hometown, sneers, et etcetera,
before you woke in the empty rooms of body.
Grappling is what the fist does best: a state.
And the best that history does is break
into sticks. Here, is a stick for your hometown, halved.
There, is a recombination pattern in those stories:
deep within your hair ends the axioms
of loss, losing definition. Grasp
the space adjacent to your lulling body,
connecting the logic of past and future
which must slip, and grow away from your unclasped fingers.

Rut

Tonight, I deconstructed love
into a thousand paper cranes.
I don’t even like folding cranes,
like the long wait. Like teleology,
my hands were always destroying
paper; fold my neck to cognize down.
Crane, just to be blinded by flight.
My hands were always sweating,
slipping thoughts of you into vacuum;
all directions evaporate in departure,
and these hands cannot give warmth.