variegated in singes; touches of her neck and wrist, contused in no promises, only the sprawl of remembrance gets darker
like abandoned memories, recalled by my mother like when my grandfather said “I’m going to kill you” while counting money
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You are a fool, you are death, where eyes decipher the plea in the thorns of a mother’s tree
leaving death of all silhouettes when the new moon born of lured tragedies outstretched to kill itself
death is a red coquette on your father’s fossil arm its abyss forgotten and ungrieved into cosseted veins of poetry, but words mean nothing to you;
silent to my blood along the bone garden I have known the women, living and dead
The dead die young Ernest Albert Bett your concrete grave is a trough with no pigs yet in it just convolvulus and ivy
I was standing on the hillbilly side watching and wondering How’d they get them black boys up, the sun was setting? I wonder what they did or why they hanging so grotesque Them trees, a black silhouette against an orange sky so fine
god’s leavetaking, nothing left for you but a ghost of gardens.
I, memory, I, a membrane and ghost meronym to memory and free—
an opus eye a moon in the hood of a rose, my hibernation once every few weeks;
I fertilize garden bones as if I would my children preparing first life and then the subtlety the pagala death;
A poem collaboration between me and Grumpy Gorman (he’s not grumpy—he just wants you to think that). We worked on it for awhile, writing, rewriting each other’s lines and adding to them as well. Hope you could enjoy our work. Also be sure to check out GG’s poetry, he’s an artist with words and it was an absolute honor working with him.
in which I am a lady of ash and hair
God’s moon, leavetaking from the garden, the wildling from its fruit I’ve killed
adieu wearing a deathlace
eyelids and a lie i stare the way footsteps slip in winters etcetera
a seed wasted as a poet hangs a tree was it me I don’t know