[in the Natural History
of Projection & Bone]
In the Natural History of Projection & Bone we build our homes in arctic mammoth tusks. To mark the entrance, an arm rises from the water in the wood. In the hand, a bouquet of three red balloons. The water never freezes, but the balloons change color with the seasons. Take note not to trip over the walking stick stuck in the center of the dining room, or its shadow we’ve painted on the floor. This is our sundial, how we know when to eat. Before each meal, we close our eyes in remembrance, & our bodies become full of need. Crystals form on the ceiling, our food. Once, in the future, I knew we would remember this harvest. Once, I gathered gravity in my skirt.
[fallen black figs]
Fallen black figs against Mediterranean brick in split sections so the closed curtain of sepals spun around calyx collapse, expose secret scarlet inside the mysterious wall with purple slit fissure laid open to light. Spilled seed-pollens of simulacra from flowering sex—overripe in sun & heat—turn to feast for bees’ tongues in honey sweet to make honey sweet—spurs in flesh, ready in surrender to the season. In symbol, why blame Eve for sewing leaves? For knowing nakedness as a wound to dress and undress. For saying I don’t want you all the time. To say I don’t want you all the time on my mind—or I want you in forgetfulness, in a longing to be broken by the strength of flames, be torn apart to ribbons. Blindfolds block out bruise-blue dark autumn skies in somnambulism. I take you for the end of the year. I take you in the end of the year and the beginning of love—or its burst echo.
[elsewhere scrims of light]
Elsewhere scrims of light at dawn with thick bars between. How many squares as the sun purples setting fog? The room fills with smoke, & all the words of eyes obscured—this word: the last two years in highrise whiteout disconnected to earth. Here each breath a new sentence in the engine, like learning to walk again under forgotten colors of an Aphrodite sky. I wrap myself in the radiance of the day you taught me to do headstands on the mountain top until flowers bloomed from the back of my skull, & fig leaves fell from blind bees’ hives into clouds. In this moment of inversion, a lone drummer boy beats back Napoleon’s army with a stick & stretched goatskin, & I am cradle-knot dwarf turned infinite-diagram giant.