Steve Clark

VII

Even here on this stretch of no man's land
the color of yolk
among scars and rivulets
squash and moss
the bleeding egg of the moon
like a Chinese eye

amidst the sere nights and days
with air heavy as camel hair
there is one final cry.

We walk on the sisal in the bedroom,
looking for the doorknob.
The walls are sealed.
The smell of old books
makes us horrible and mean.
It grows inside us
like a flood.

My lord, my lovely, my toes of colored glass,
hold me for a second now.
I will chew my teeth
for the rest of existence,
but just hold me for a second.
You turn away
look out the window,
though the shades are down.

When you stepped onto the bus,
I swallowed a stack of wet leaves.

How long ago was that?
Today? Three hundred years ago?

When did this turn into a poem for you?
When did you install yourself
on this island of cinder and ash?

Let's reside elsewhere, shall we?
I stuff you down and stand up,
though the blood in my blood
is bleeding.

The bus signals right
and glides onto the highway.

Son!
I'm talking to you.

I see you by the pool,
cross-legged on the Spanish Limestone,
a child of four
with a straw-colored bowl cut.
You're crying, soon you will stop.

I'll take you into the pool,
and you'll kick your feet,
and the water will splash.
Then we'll sit on the edge
and our skin will dry.

I write to you across a scribble of blue lines
and longing, I'm talking to you,
ripped out and left on the gurney,
your cord slick with shit and blood.
I was agape at all the life you had left
so close to death
as the scrofulous medic walked by
for a cigarette break.

My harbinger of glee,
love the bones.
Stop.
Love the bones.