The Summer I Couldn’t Sleep

Yew trees branched into my veins.

Needles pricked my hands

my wrists— needles

punctured my chest, a harbor

for a man-made conduit.

Nothing stemmed my desire

for you. Nothing stopped 

the waking hours filled 

with longing for— I am

expected to say: Life

and I say: your mouth

spreading mine your fingers

spreading every mouth of me

open the entire sleepless 

summer I lay awake unable
to eat unable to receive 

sunlight— it was always 

bright I always had to 

stay indoors. Awake.

The drugs to keep me

safe from the drugs that were

killing me one cell at a time—

they held my eyes open.

Time passed so slowly

I could not see it

passing the IV dripping

into me the ice on my

hands ice on my 

feet ice on my 

head my hair my

unruly mane— I was

a horse reined in by

IV tubing I wanted 

to be ridden by

no one but you—

Quarry

After the rain all the tracks disappeared

so I shut my eyes—

the forest has other ways to show

what is hidden. Felt the leaves, no longer

green or speckled— instead wet, slick

tongues licking past solstice

and beginning again to speak—

their language: sun becoming

sugar when the sky is grey—

Can you feel the granularity of pollen—

Or are you still seeking its saffron

stain? I listened

for direction for the rustle of haunches,

wings— if something moves,

don’t shoot— not even if it begs you to;

this is personal— you need to be sure

of the scent— the one you tracked

until you lost your self—

wound up here— Where

is here?

The river says: Here

is the place where you have nothing

in your pocket but hunger—

You are the pocket

rich with wanting.

The leaves say: Open

your mouth but do not

speak: you are the place

to be entered—

Something rustles— the wind

in your hair— you

are the drifting scent You have it

all wrong— you are what is moving—

Don’t shoot, you say

please, you say

What— taunts the mouth that is

not yours— Please what—