Wind, Give Me Fire

Wind, give me fire
Fire, give me rain
Rain, give me thunder that cracks the skies

Come out in the rain

Come out
          my darling
                into the bright rain

Silken blood pulses in my fingertips

My mouth wants to open
like a paper flower
in a bowl of water

Does light pulse on the other side of night?
Does the wind call your name?

How will we know
          if we don’t go out
                in the rain?

The Beauty of Beetles

Beetles do not know they are beautiful —
the fiery iridescence of outer wings that shield
a tracery of veins
on cellophane;
the sway of antennae; the glory of six legs —
they neither preen themselves nor worry
that their eye facets glint with too much light,
but simply open their wings and fly.

Transformations

Shadows turn to dusk, and the moon makes her entrance
wearing white face paint.
It’s time to go into the night.
Cinderella dances down the sidewalk in plastic shoes.
A vampire is sinking his fangs into veins
of red licorice.
Superman ripples with plastic muscles
and can leap tall buildings in a single bound,
but has to be coached by his father.
“Say trick-or-treat.” “Now say thank you.”

Tiara on her short brown hair,
a girl glitters with gems and fairy dust.
Arms through elastic bands,
the fairy princess twitches her wings into place
and flutters up the steps to ring the bell.

In the morning she wakes yawning
in her pajamas, sugar fuzzing her mouth.
But when she looks in the mirror and sees
a girl brushing her teeth, an image
overlays it, of a princess touching her glittering wand
to the night sky and making stars.

Perfect Skin

You’ve barely lived in your skin,
and already it’s torn
and wet with tears.
I hold you so close you can hear my heart beating
to the rhythm of your sobs.

If I could,
I’d take my mother’s thimble that was her mother’s,
its silver old and worn as the moon.
I’d choose thread the color of your tears,
and a needle so fine, being an eyelash of light,
the stitches will leave the faintest scar,
as if a single hair lay across your cheek.

I’d say, hold still one more minute
while I tie off the knot.
Then you can go running
to try and catch a firefly —

try not to fall.

Crow Eats Carrion

His wife turns up her nose
and turns her back. You born in a barn?
He brings her the wishbone of a wren.
Here, sweetie, we’ll make a wish
never to be parted.

Oh, you. She strokes the feathers
on top of his head.

When Crow eats carrion
he takes in that animal,
the light step of the deer,
the trembling of the rabbit,
the fish smoothed and smoothed by water.
He thinks he is god. He stuffs himself.
His stomach hurts. He has a headache.
I’ll never do this again.

His wife has a cough that won’t go away.
One morning she has blood on her beak.
One morning she doesn’t wake,
though Crow calls and calls.
Now he knows for sure he’s not god.

He eyes the sleek breast,
the muscle bunched in the thigh,
and knows what to do.
Bending his head
he begins to nibble on a wing.

published in Mythic Delirium