Yolki Blues

I am the yolki flower, the shade of an egg.
I arrive in a burst, albumen and sack,
after first treasure of rain.
I promise you things.
Your soil is deaf to my voice,
a signal of centering force.
I am Israel’s daffodil, a trumpet the poets
have bellowed through dust.
You are the frost with your habits and hands
holding a gun to temples of peace.

I shimmy with sunlight and birth.
Yet, darkness is all I’m coming to know.
Why are you plodding on trails
of a tomb in the guise and the guess
of slicing an earth meant to be shared.
Insisting on fences and walls kilometers long.
Old battles and shrapnel are eating my leaves.
In other wars, no stones, no wires
were enough to contain a rampage of terror.

A pendulum swings, cracking the clock.
This flavor of hate shrivels my flesh.
Piranhas are grabbing whatever moves.
Our quibbles are ancient sheep
gnawing the throat of an innocent lamb.
It didn’t work for Berlin,
where the Dipper shoveled a grave
and Pleiades became a fixture
of glory removed in bullets exchanged —
where shadows grew sharp,
sticky with blood,
in palettes of crippling swastikas.

*First Published in Offcourse

among the dead and dying

there are rooms
in this house filled with
nothing but the black weight
of your past

there are windows pushed
to the point of breaking

and being in love is
being on the wrong side of
a locked door and i
find myself too often forgetting
where i’ve left the sun

i find myself
numbered among the dead
and dying species while
further down some long unused hallway
you cry for the person i’ve
made you become

and we will find each other in
the last fragile seconds
before the sky splits open
and we will stop

our hands will
explore living flesh beneath the
first low mutters of thunder and
our tongues will follow

that we believe this much in
the force of desire
should never be forgotten

we have built this silence

we have built
this silence

both of us clutching
in an unfamiliar country

the dogs with a language
the children smiling
but riddled with hatred

some of us pointing guns
others bleeding
and the question is god

the question is
the emptiness of the sky
on any given january

there is room enough
beneath it
for all of us to be


prev published in Stickman Review

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