SURVEY OF LUST
i wrench the bone from my mouth for three minutes before it flutter into a raven. you shove
the raven inside your jeans, watch saliva thumb the chin. my fingers parenthesis my elbow. i
shake. the raven hyphens. outside, i hear many erotics: engines, wind-wrestled trees,
humming cicadas. the raven begins again, pecking until your palm waxes it tender. i canvas
your eyes: cornea. pupil. iris. lens. when i reach the vitreous body, i choke: fuck me. fuck me,
shapeless—would i have known? i? who wanted a man inside him. as thunder amputates the
sky, the light above us grows blind. the raven swells, culls my attention. what i imagine: my
hand thrusting the fowl by the throat until it chirps blood.
AND SO A LIGHT
for my grandfather
If a bird, I would incubate the bone. Or nest inside
There is a nurse to my left—palm on the knee—
theory at the tongue. You are not to blame. You garden
children in your blood. If home were a place, then suffering.
Or the cartilage losing its flight. You have known this
with the body. The muscle of surgeons. The machine’s mawless beep.
Suppose you didn’t disease. Simply feathered paralysis.
But I am not a bird. Only what is left of the iris.