(2012)

This fine silk thread
borrowed from an orb weaver
I will use for your hair
so the sun’s light refracts full spectrum
casting color on the shadows etched into the walls
reservoir of my cobra heart
docile till you come near

These stones
rolled smooth by river’s torrent
and ocean’s tide
will fit into the sockets where your eyes
once watched this dramedy unfold

These conchs will be your ears
mounted upon an urchin
that will pose as your head
inside, for your brain
I shall ejaculate my semen
so your thoughts will be productive

your lips will be made of reeds
stretched across your face
dried after a devastating winter
and your nose crafted from the girders
of a fallen skyscraper
so you can smell trouble
as far as your stones can see

For your tongue
I will sew in the swatches of fabric
you selected for curtains
to block out our view
of the neighbors spying
our creation

your torso
will be fashioned from the tupelo
whose seed blew into our nest
by monsoon winds who knew
where to find us
planted on the grounds our first child was conceived
carved with cat’s claw in exquisite detail
to replicate your topography

When he dies
your arms will be the wings of the heron
born orphan for whom
you regurgitated carp, bass, eel and blue-gill
with those you can satellite the orb
and keep tabs on me

I will steal
the legs of a race horse
as she crosses the finish line
You will have the strength
and speed
to do our shopping
and the horse who died for you
will be exploited no more

For your heart
I transplant this punching bag
to absorb the shock of my dragon strikes
you shall need to resuscitate you frequently
as you transcend the Red Land

Two balloons
sent to you while
you lay on your death bed
will be your lungs,
this way we are spared the cost
of more balloons
lest you catch another chance at death

your stomach
will be the camping grill
we bought and never used
you can cook your own food now
and won’t have to eat it
had you stayed around a little longer
you might have had the chance to chew

The rest of your organs
will be junk
from the attic, the garage
the closets, the basement and the shed
Spare parts to carry out the functions
we never think about anyway
I will stuff them
into your Tupelo trunk in no particular order
packed tight
to keep your tree from rattling
but careful not to
puncture your balloon lungs
compress your punching bag heart
douse the embers of your built in BBQ
or constrict the flow of your sap
that occasionally seeps
through little cracks in your bark
and which I collect to sweeten
the herbs I planted
as pubes for tea

This grotesque ensemble
I will seat by the fireplace
on very cold days
On warmer days
I will mount you, erect,
on the roof
to interfere with gamma rays from distant stars
and to fuck with everyone’s cell reception

I will take you
for rides on my ghost-drawn cart
so your stones can see
the progress humans have made
this decade past
this decade lost
trying to put you
back together again