BY TRISH HARRIS
Beyond the whir of silence I hear the sagebrush fire's
the wine bottles' clink at the door of the heart,
the last fruit torn from its stem in Eden.
My tree shuddered as he crawled over to me,
hands crumpled against the rough floor,
his blackberry tongue crushed against mine.
I pulled away, then back,
my body thrown from the cliff of resistance,
A man in my bed is worth two in my mother's, I
licking the largeness of his Adam's-apple,
a man escaped from that narrow coffin,
antique lovemaking in a crushed-velvet box.
Milklight shudders from the shoulders of the trees
A toad glints dorsal bark beneath the concrete stair.
Breathing slow, I part green sugar-ribbons,
their stems days from swelling shut,
theur green days from brown, their supple soon crisp.
Coat-eaters eep eep from the other side of the crowd
They rustle and stroke within ankled leafmold,
I crunch their mansions in a timid lumber, booted feet
heavy with misdirection.
Dahl ghouls wait to anoint me with righteous violence.
My oblivion is the cheddar that snaps the traps of
my eyes on the maiden's milky face shuddering above
the dying pines.
After nine years
we drove to Baltimore
in the dark of night
the city lights rising
in a cast-iron pot of water
about to boil.
It was the moment of my escape.
Not as I had planned it,
but as it would happen.
He looked over.
Do that (this).
Go there (here).
So I fled,
and everywhere I looked,
an almond-eyed girl in home-sewn culottes
two dogs trailing on ungraded
turned a face
toward the Negress sky,
all awe and hunger and anticipation,
and saw hope hung strangled
from the trees.
I wanted vowels and got consonants.
The curve of his ear was a revelation,
the cusp of a universe
I was breathless to explore,
and now (then) I (she) am
the one who drove to Baltimore,
everything I thought I owned
in a rented van,
my sleeping children travelling
the same distance
twice in two days.
Lady barks and I pat her.
Stay, I say.