Uncastrated, she wanders through the parlor
with heels ticking like grandfather clocks.
Her pen made a blood-pool on each fingertips
but never again beneath her.
The false beard she wore rustling, making a corn-ear of her face
yellow-eyed, her knee highs worn like witch's familiars.
I found her reading Shakespeare in a Chinese restaurant one Tuesday night
and we sat down and Buddha's toes to eat General Tso's tofu.
"I think" she said, "I've moved on from beards to moustaches."
and I watched her lips move like barges across the Nile.
So she gave me a caterpillar in a jar
which is supposed to give me hope, I guess.
I'm not sure if it will survive in this city of hungry sparrows.
She knew the lion-headed god as well as I
the vampire that made me a hysteric,
the nightmare-man putting out cigarettes on my chest.
The sun that blistered the marble tombs within me.
She said: "You will find your moon, little sister
though now you are a wrinkled burn victim,
you will be the earth-water and I will be the basket that delivers you."
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment