Mother, Nurse, Mouth

fevered, submerged, she dreams
of hands holding her down, wrapping
her in medical dressings, her skin
a wound now as they wind her

a spider turning her sideways, laying
her on her stomach with rapid, spiny,
stiff legs, the filmy matter covering
her neck, her ears, her eyes already
closed, she barely feels the bite

Selected Fragments

my brother calls from his basement

a rusty coffee can

lava rippling down a mountain

dressed in black satin and feathers

a dislocated thumb

as people age, their shoes last longer

who would ever believe a dog could fly?

wet as a dumped basket of fish

tipping two spoonfuls of lead pigment into your cup

the twins howling in the backyard

your face as unfolded as a five-year-old's

a German woman with an aria

run over by very heavy, very tiny trucks

as if there's a hand or robe over the phone

she guarantees him nothing

Marginalia on Rappaccini's Daughter

    my mouth,
the other makes a fist
and rubs under
        her chin, the sides
of her mouth, her ears as she lifts her

slowly twists her head,

drooling with pleasure
    the noise from the street

the breath behind me

    light disappears, flickers

        long wet fingers tap the

engine approaching

        her pupils widen
            until there’s nothing, black

I have been very sick -- sick, sick, sick. And I still am, but the fever's gone so I can think a little more clearly.

Here's that interview that ran on the local NPR station -- do I sound like an idiot?

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