Toward Mercy I Throw the First Stone

Image by NASA via Flickr

He — earth-bound vessel
that he is, god that he
is not — instructed me to write, and so I wrote

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I gave you this voice, and you’ve used it to find me. Fool.

— Geffrey Davis, “Like a River”

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Like peanut ochre

Like penny grass

Like five-day sentience

Like armor brass

Like evening sprout

Like double mouth

Like lips abeyant

You talk to me

Before I Knew You

Before I knew you I dreamed of you.
In the desert’s glassy dark, your body spread out

on thread grass, I raised a handful of snow
to your lips. You who will teach me silence

in the full light of day, who will take the words
from my mouth with bare hands. Joyful

and at the same time, wretched —
this is what you’ll do to me.

By morning you’ve disappeared,
the sand has settled in my black hair

and I know you well.

Conversation / Incantation

Faceless angel, look at me —
you say you want to run from men
but I am still here.

You are a dream of yourself: a metaphor
for language. Pale in comparison.

For many years, I will live free of guilt
and the lies it makes of our body.

Look, there is something in your hand —
an empty beer bottle
or a dead fish. The earth
is wild with coincidence.

I must confess: once, I held a white dove
by the throat, tore its wings
from its body.

It’s simple, I want to know what violence means.
Compassion

does what it says. And I know this wing which has carried me
can also carry you
if you let it.

Forever the Body / Forever the Self

And some days I fear that if nobody saw me I would not exist.

If I had a story to tell trust
it would not be mine. Patches of darkness,

sky as cloudy marble
tabletop over which we eat and drink. My dear

epicurean, let me scrawl a red ribbon across your throat
with wine.

Let us lock the windows of memory
with the iron shackles of faith.

Forever the body.
Forever the self.

Whatever you think of me now, know
that I have been much more and much less.

Sometimes I forget — and are you not guilty
of this yourself? —

Raphael’s Madonna, beautiful in her crown
of gold leaves, was in fact painted for nobody.

In the painting, the baby Jesus hands a rose to a child
clothed in wolf skin as Mary looks on, cautiously.

Having brought myself before god I bring myself
before you —

my skin burning like the shed skin of a desert snake.

Fields of Indigo

I am scared of what you’ll do to me.

Once I came to you with a fever. You took off
my glasses, spread sesame oil

along the contours of my face
then handed me a cup of dead wasps

and told me to drink. Perhaps I never really knew
what you promised: paradise nothing more

than learning how to draw the bars of my own cage.
It sounds harmless, like a lamb suddenly emerging

from the bush. And what will they say
of our journey? No matter.

How you crawled through fields of indigo
to tell me your secret

as if crawling back to my arms
from the afterlife.

walk toward my voice

What do you want to say, Simon? Light the paper
lanterns

and let them go

this measure of darkness, this ridiculous
ransom.

It’s only the second time you’ve found me
shirtless, walking through each room

a plate brimming with water
balanced on both palms.

The light of the fire has so much
to say to the water

and already I’ve forgotten who you are.