Detour
We drive up around the curve of the lake
To pick apples in Michigan and I asked you,
Between the cool, grassy lanes of trees to lie
Down with me but you declined and said
I can’t be with you as if nothing happened,
As if you never lifted the lid of my crystal
coffin.-
Later, I walked the long mile between
the fences of tomatoes, so many
so long unattended now it’s October
that I felt like the world’s abortionist
as I crushed thousands of tiny orbs
under my heavy feet –
there was no other way to get down that path.
Migrating
She closes eyes to ashtrays
past overflowing and the empty
bottle half-hidden under Sunday’s paper,
its contents soothing the morning coffee.
His voice tells her it's best
that they move soon,
somewhere with more trees,
or maybe a school for her.
Mother's not around anymore;
she left with a rich man.
So father feels it's his place
when she bends down to kiss him
good morning and good bye
to mutter some advice,
the wisps lost in his beard
like sharp smoke from clove cigarettes.
He smoothes his palm over her hair,
afraid, telling her be careful.
But she never is.
Already the girl is carved,
her odd sections shaved
off into starry powder,
padded lightly to make the shape of woman.
She now talks with serious lips,
transformed by the blush and swell of blood.
There is no one to blame
if she is displeased with this promise of another
change ¾ the
giving over of herself,
sure as a knife slitting a fish's belly.
