Three poems

ONE

I fear its time to wipe the blood from the cuticles. I know, I am not ready either, but the pull of epi and dermis and the ability to shed those tiny things...If I could, I’d stay with the stars. There is a mutual understanding about extinguished light finding its way to you. I am gone before the harm is done. Or, I could rotate the universe in your favor, bring out all those mysteries collapsed inside your blackhole. In the end, this is how it will be: a magician's hanky spewing color across the sky till disbelief flounders and wounds inflicted become tales for children.


TWO

Across this white plane, our bodies laid out for autopsy. Disconnected and removed liver and lung and pancreas await discovery. There may have been a mistake with the cessation of time--my leg confused for yours; Oh!, do not take this as an insult! It has nothing to do with girth or hair, but about redistribution of molecules. I will always give you carbon in exchange for radical hydrogen. Don’t look sad, really, please don’t. When the doctor comes for our eyes, I wish that you be first.


THREE

I want to take you to the ledge
blow dandelions, watch them kite
and dance in their decent