Exhumations

Exhumations For Nanny Like a boy being carried by his father, the crease of my shirt over this chair is penalty of the relics I provide, urging parallels of shadow to outline the lashes beneath your eyes. If given a chance, maybe you'd sink your head deeper into the candles of your hands, until melting, until aware of your definition of forever-- you'd remain, the sepulcher of your triumph reserved and buried in the hungry earth beneath you. Maybe the swing of the scythe above grass is like that fine line that separates the departed from the living. Maybe you'd get up. Maybe you'd tell me what's wrong with everything I do--why staring at bowls of tangerines, erasing the same word over and over tearing the page-- why the genesis of your niece has you thinking about the self, the passing of the torch, the yearning for oblivion, time panting in your being, trying its best to keep pace. Maybe this blood jet of bedding I lie in reminds you of the fragile things that fingertips are too strong for, the distances eyes are too glazed to see, the din too quiet for ears to listen--one day you'd know that I'd fed this planet like the food for fish, where the dead rise to the surface to eat. The moon, like death, has my face backwards. And now, I have you kneeling, your lips gliding on my face, imparting your kisses, your disaster.