Sunday, October 28, 2012

Seven Scatterings

I. Indian Jew

I will marry a Jew.
An Indian Jew,
with a thick beard,
and dark eyes,
and no history
of women.

II. Heaven

Heaven is my heart
made large enough to love God
the way He deserves.

III. Sweater

There are hairs in this sweater
that look as if someone hugged a dog
a white dog over and over,
up and down.

IV. Leftist

Scintillating leftist flutter
in my belly, shake my leg
and wonder shyly, (angry), wryly
why I cannot bear
to bear another name.

V. Forced 1

Who will toss
and torrent dialed
clefts, the brassy cool dead
after-floor, lofty, whole, no crack.

VI. Forced 2

Pickled belly button magenta
glass, glad eyes, spat laughter,
languor laid in sun on another
stiff pillow.

VII. Padme Amidala In My Dreams

She rolled barrels up the belt 
and stacked them in a pile.
Barrel on barrel, 
barred board 
on barred board,
smiled sweetly, petite
brunette in white, tight flexible

VIII.  Oatmeal

I ate oatmeal for a week,
three times a day,
to make sure 
I wasn't dreaming.

I wasn't. 
But I still can't say.
We can read sentences now.
Isn't it amazing?

Phonics felt impossible back then.

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