Sufjan Interjects Again

What makes a belly good is not its girth
—sneezing the sneeze of short snouts—
Or its ability to be disguised by an empire waist
—snorfling into my armpit—
But whether you can lay with it exposed
—careening through patches of tall grass —
Inviting adoration or showing submission
—nearly rolling off the bed or stairs—
And either way trusting the flesh to be exactly enough
—closing alien-large eyes to better feel
the relief of short nails on furry, imperfect skin.

Mercy of the Clarinetist, Libations to the Glass

Lauren was patient as a fern.
She did not even laugh when I said the sadness felt like a cylinder of frozen peas,
But made me sit with the thing so plain I couldn't make a metaphor of it.

That's what was left after I hurled glass bottles into a concrete wall,
Hoping the itch would leave my golgothan hands.
Some of it did, but glass shards lurked in the weeds
And I could not gather them all.
It's the kind of cold that burns, I said. Not the comfortable cool
Every Louisiania-born fat woman longs for from March to October.

What clenches in my abdomen, what leaves long red marks
On my face when I wake in the morning
Is the loneliness of the small, round, hard things you microwave
When there is no one else to cook for.

Dare, Columbine

Pierrot, do not give me another damned rose.

I will not have it, sir.
Enough of unassuming sweetness.

If you turn toward the waxing moon and sigh one more time

I will smack you about the face.

Come instead, and sneak into this cemetery with me.
The resting souls there will not mind us, I promise.
They won't even notice if we tell dirty limericks,
Or, flat on our backs, look up the stone angel's nose.
And from there it is an easy distance to saying secrets and kissing.

I have always preferred you,
But I do not want to sit so long in silence.
Be daring, Pierrot, and use your mouth.

Speak, clamorously if you must.
Let's vandalize the night
With our clanging shouts to God.

The Wind Comes and Takes Thalia

The wind comes and takes.

I stand outside the apartment

And write your name on a dried leaf in mad, crabwalking letters.

When I close my fist, bits of Thalia fall from among my fingers.

The wind comes and takes

Those who are cowards in the face of emotional risk.

We trade chairs. 

I would write your name on the petal whorl

But then it wouldn't fly when the wind comes.

Instead there is ink on my hands

From when the leaf cracked

Under the pressure of the marker as I dotted the i

And black bled into the rills of my palm.

You remind me it becomes a comedy

If in the end we both are married—

Though not necessarily to each other—

And you laugh while you try to pry open my fingers.

I give my tongue to the cat

And open my hand to the wind, which comes and takes.

Drinking Alone In My Apartment on New Year's Eve

A) Would not be half so embarrassing
If I didn't feel compelled to write about it
But here I jolly well am, aren't I

B) Tastes more like quinine
Than anything else

C) Is lit with a ring of sweet olive candles
I lean away from to avoid
Setting the place on fire with my breath

D) Is only depressing if I stop believing

That next year will be different

Somehow

Lady Godiva

People whispered that I was noble, crazy, brave
(or all of those things in combination)

And perhaps I was

I don't remember exactly why anymore
I clothed the horse but not myself
(Embroidered linen draped
over his shoulders and quarters)
But here is what I do know:

I was stung awake by the somehow prickle of horsehair
on my legs and the first sun on the whole of my back
I felt the shudder of my flesh as the horse tramped onward

I had not known what nakedness could offer me
until my lonely pageant laid bare the city
Absent its vendors and politicians
it was ghosty and holy and I was
holy too

I sweated into the nimbus of my uncovered hair
and breathed to the capacity of my lungs
and began to glow
(People say poor Tom was struck blind
or hypnotized that day. Either way,
now he peddles wreaths
he made for the Queen of Heaven)

And I have not stopped since that time
Sweating, fluorescing
and taking numinous breaths

In Which Danielle Does Not Pray

I sat with my grandfather.

He knew my name, probably. He gasped for air.

I sat, loving him and not knowing what to do.

I offered to read Sherlock Holmes aloud, to rub his feet,

Or to bring him water.

I tell you this because I want you to think well of me,

Even if I was not useful. He declined.

I watched my mother, stalwart and gentle,

Care for him consummately. She shaved his whiskers,

Held his cup for him to drink, tucked the blanket around his feet.

Those things I might have done, 

But dying is an ugly business, and she did not shy from the rest. 

She held his hand through the gurgling ripping coughing. She did not balk

At urine or vomit or blood. She saw his legs become spindles.

She smoothed his hair and looked at him with such tenderness,

As though his mouth were not crusted yellow and as though 

He had never been a hard man.

I sat in the room and watched her ministrations,

And I could not possibly have loved her more. 

When he dies, I will cry for love of her.

(Selah. Ainsi soit-il.)

Wailing Wall

Cry, then, little monster

Let all of it whale up to the surface

Burst through your mouth

And slap its tail against the water

The way it stings

From all those molecules, hydrogen bonds

Clinging together

So the palm of all this grief stings

For full minutes afterward

And that is as it should be
Though once it's out
You needn't hold to it longer
Do not reel it back
Or throw a spangled scarf over it

This opening you've made
Is the essence of courage
And the shame isn't yours

It's for some other belly
And some other whale

Love Song to Carmen Sandiego

Hey Carmen, where you going next?
I've got my suitcase packed, and I'm ready to leave with you
And there's nowhere in the world I wouldn't go
So don't leave me here so lonely in Cairo

I would meet you in Minsk and kiss you in Kiev
And hold your hand on the banks of the Thames
I'd fly from the Mojave all the way to Skopje
And never look back
And never look back

You have ten different passports, I know,
Hidden in the pockets of that beautiful red trench coat
But since you're on the lam
Let me run a while with you
Hey Carmen, where you going next?

Cause I've got soles by the purseful, and a handy Finnish phrasebook
And two pairs of dark sunglasses, and a box of fake mustaches
And no one will know our faces
No, no one will know our faces

Hey Carmen, where you going next?

Cardiovascular Issues Prevent Me From Flirting

Sweat of summer lingers at the nape of my neck
September ushers in cooler air, but not fast enough

She is charming and wounded as we walk uptown
And I am pretending not to be breathless

Which is stupid, I realize, and it's not like it helps
But I space out my laughter to coincide with my lungs' demands

Hoping that she will not notice my panting
Or the flush of my face, red as autumn leaves