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Deborah Poe
Global Warning
summer is a heat with many rooms
like a cigarette, but—
it plants itself outside
any window
&glints
(like lakelight)
with the agency to speak
for herself,
april does so
through addicting sunlight
so much a woman,
painting vermillion lipstick:
a charged red end to invierno.
outdoors everyone is ecstatic
inside the weight of rain
if circumcision, then fertile sans pleasure
bulbs mean cliterally
pop the cherry looking glass—
whoever blossoms
fractures
a life in mirrors.
There Was Language Inside Her, and She Slipped
after Paul Celan
She slipped and she slipped, so moonshine
wove words by her, in day.
And she did not hold suffering,
which, she understood, craved all this,
which, she understood, accepted it.
She slipped and understood nothing;
she did not discover genius, created no masterpiece,
leaving wine for language.
She slipped.
There came a leaving, and they came to go,
and all the going left.
I slip, you slip. The silkworm slips too,
and the weaving there says She slips.
O Eli, the lie, the mine of yours—
where did the path move curving to mine?
Yours that slips while I slip lipping, the slip.
Demographics
1.
Imagine now how many people are hip to hip, thigh to thigh. In the world, we are tumbling towards the glut. An overflow. Maybe it’s not so funny. What percentage of the factory is producing? What percentage of his orgasm went to the child? What percentage went to love?
2.
Lucky for us, there are the dissatisfied. Let go the nun, the virgin, and the shrew. Overpopulation is an abusive spouse. Earth and its arranged marriage.
3.
Some of the parts miss your whole. Some of the whole hurts to part. Some of the hurt holes up the parts.
4.
Breeders live, breeders die. Stick a needle in my eye.
5.
I can’t stand somehow the way you touch me. A child reaching for its mother.
Dream to Al-Quds
Grandmother leaves my dirty ribbon
in the convenience store tied around
letters I have not bothered to send.
My brother & I ride our bikes
down a debris-ridden street.
My chain falls off,
it’s the only sound,
a clattering among
concrete chunks.
The stone is linked to human
kabba (the cube) at the heart
of Mecca holding on between
asleep and awake my Father
is paid to bulldoze trees.
Real men do work,
where it’s not so silent,
& I am not invisible.
This morning before
really opening my eyes
I wrote a poem
This was not it.
(Al-Quds, meaning "the holy," is the Arabic name for Jerusalem.)
Copyright © Deborah Poe
