“a memory of an apartment in the city”
…and even the brook,
…
Can never run clear of certain stones…
…it’s
murmuring
Half-ruined in the white noise of its
splashing water.
John
Hollander
“One of Our Walks”
or
or
He knew I wouldn’t be sleeping
with him when he heard me cutting
my fingernails…
“a
memory of an apartment in the city”
Consider:
we're all breathing and blood we're vegetable
and meat chewed into pulp
and somehow
and somehow
we become a
finger
a
sheath of skin
a rib and a
femur
aside from the woman and the man on
top
of her, his furrowed bloody back,
or the quick
chemistry the cauldron of womb’s
placental breath
once let go
the thriving is outside
hand to mouth
right down to the
smallest moan
the smallest word on the
smallest tongue:
shaped
and then severed-
snipped
too soon maybe too soon
too soon maybe too soon
out of spite
or pain
but even as the quarter
moon’s still there red as lips
it’s as far as any man
will be
from
the tiny pile
of fingernails
cut under the brightest light inside
a dark operatic
glass
a cricket unrubbed at each clip clip
clip
until all ten
are the remarkable
cleave all the more
remarkable at
the stark pause
when it was
once when it was
and now it is
not.
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