Night Poem XVIII

Beautiful mama,
you’re burning up.
What terrible fever have
I put in you?

All night,
the fever burns you
in and out of love.
Damn it baby, I want your fever too.

Your skin hot on my tongue,
your breasts like flame,
your violent whimpers
scratch like thorns.

The louder you get,
the closer I come to a star of agony.
Beautiful mama, I’m burning up.
What terrible fever have you put in me?

I want your disdain,
I want your coy hips,
I want your blood’s exhaustion,
I want the anarchy of your dark sheets.

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Night Poem I

The night sits cross-legged outside my window,
and makes me want to flee these hands.

The night is a voice of orchards gently breaking my heart,
and I remember the small feet of a woman,
and how the night once touched them, like a wounded boy.

I don’t want the night to bring me this memory of desire.
I don’t want these nights of love to describe the ruins of my sky.

But the night sits cross-legged at my window,
and calls for me by an old name.

The Tonsure

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The nun’s beguiling hands brush my skin,
the distant touch of desire.
Before the many folded silences of his statue,
she cuts away the strands that were my life.
Now the razor is like a riot of river stones
rolling across my scalp,
the collision of bleached skulls in the infinite eaves.

With each falling strand,
I am losing my way.
How strange this feeling of heedlessness,
as though I find a kind of ecstasy
in these outspread jet-black blades,
like a cold and irretrievable lacquer folding fan.

And amidst all this loss,
the beautiful core of my desolation,
a white blossom held in the statue’s hand.
When I emerge from my tonsure,
to the cloister’s waiting mountain,
you will not recall me,
and the bald snow will caress my head
like a memory of life.

Black Currant

I wouldn’t say I am at a loss,
for speech, for words, for flowers.

It’s just that, in the mouth
there is something,
dark, growing, blooming,
death.

I call it death,
but really it is the birth
of an exquisite black currant.

Where am I going?
I’m going to the middle,
the middle,
to the heart of the black currant.
At each bite, through the skin,

itself a galaxy, a life, a cold and deserted song,
I’m wading into the flesh,
blue, female.

It is a breast, a fullness between my teeth.
I know what I will find there
at the centre.

It is not a final nipple, not
completion, lust, perfection, fleeing guitar.
At each bite, the currant diminishes,

at each bite, the lungs full,
so gorged with the juice of fear and sleep.

Animals sleep in huddles of sand.
My palm is a vast plain in the night.

A single tree shelters the
black currant,
the current of my death in the desert.

A wind like a woman strips the dripping canyons.
What is it I find at the centre of my currant?

All fruit falls in the mouth of death,
my voice blooms in the mouth of death,

an ejaculation of stars,
smeared over the parallel skin of her waist.