Warmly lit pea pods split and
Glaze the mushroom cap in your hand as
You try. You mix and mash to the plucking of the harp
On your sphere of copper moonless nights
In time but not in motion,
A compass off the globe that spins
Again, again, again,
But won’t land because of the
Mixing and mashing of your hands.
You beat the harvest
To wrench apart your crispy arms
Into lines of churning ink and blood,
Their stains circle you
You, a body in a slinky,
Bound to the harp ticking your head
Ears stuffed, sound gone, you continue
To serve the charred black on your ring finger,
Master mark of all.
Her gown has wilted among your garden of weeds,
Her body was not yours
To cling to the soil beneath her bruised and
That lingered in the snow for far too long
As you would say.
Her body, mostly bone, in yours,
Your orange arms flex but still those bones
Drain her body to the earth.
You mix and mash, pluck and beat
Exasperated souls until mercy climbs perched
Into your focused lap and says,
To drop your sword and microscope
I hope you let your shoulders sag and be