What if

What if What if What if What if
What if What if What if What if
What if What if What if What if
What if What if What if What if
What if What if What if What if

(it rained all summer
& the sun stayed up all day
so our four blocks
plunged into green
beneath a canopy of elms)

Your lips my lips.
wet leaves on the pavement
& my tongue

pushing firepowder
clouds into your mouth.


1955 5am

Huey,

Oh!            Cry!

My loved
ten fingered and toed
two eyed and eared
seven minutes old, six and a quarter pound boy

Cry!

The light must be a shock but
wrapped in
yellow
blankets, docile,

coated in amniotic fluid
as a stranger’s steady hands
gently pat your head and body dry

baby, let me
welcome you and hum your sleep,
swaying back
and forth in daylight cotton

tenuously cradled in my arms;

Cry!


Summer Earthquakes

I wish I could still eat fresh fruit

Let excess juice run to my chin drip out
splatter slow roses on my shirt
growing in size with every heave
staining my chest, and like a secondary
wave under soaked cotton, skin contracts,
bumps rise, the aftershock of summer
earthquakes
left me cold as ever
shivering in sunlight.

Is it any wonder that years later my
cracked lips did not need convincing and I
swallowed what you offered, felt it drip
from mouth to chest and fell,
ribs splayed open in the cold sunlight;
heart beating final aftershocks of summer earthquakes.

 

Image by: Andrés Nieto Porras