Monday, December 21, 2009

The Thinnes


The day he was born
he drew milk from her
so fiercely
what should have been teaspoon
spilled out of her by late evening.
Her body opened: milk bood baby
water on the same day.

Those were the things she wondered
what her body could do.


It was years before she knew
it could claim her
closing her
one cell at the time.


The son can still see her
waiting for him
on the top step
on the front porch
hair pulled back in thin strings.
She sits, a wisp, with her cigarette
smoke curled round her,
then into thin air:
Thumb and forefinger
the width of her wrist
her skin
white in the porch light
doesn't pinch from the bone.
She can feel her own thinness,
leafmark on the back of her hand.


Remember this?


It is all song:
voice of hands

Here we are fire
and steam, we

dance the absence
without loss

Body knows the drum-
beat is all time

Fall down music dance
head and arms

in the womb

We are all drums:
bongoes, kettle, bass

and snare we dance
contract of blood and bone

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