Joy
This is the only way I know how.
To tip my head back from the dark well
and let my watering mouth
catch stars in devotion.
My life continues to run and mill
through the night. I sluice small
moments for smaller pieces of light.
There is no choir on the mountain
whose voices will ring through the pass
shaking the snow like a woman
too long a queen. I open my throat
like a bell or a lamp and nothing
comes out; only the silence of animals
dying carries the night.
Below, in the swirl and congeal
of churches and houses plays a loss
forged by centuries. Regret
moves dim and warm over my bed.
I refuse to wait for cellos and oboes,
violins describing a heart.
Rocking on my toes and sucking
wind through my teeth, pleading
with pines to fill with last year’s life
or three perfect wood-described notes.
I stumble over the slovenly stones
in a universe that resurrects itself daily.
Reflections die out of leaves
and in phone booths, while a bird
continues to pick friends clean from
my ribs. I walk in my succulent
flesh towards the city, because it gleams
when I’m not there, whole and in love.
A fish in my chest keeps on moving.
I take whatever light breaks into my bedroom,
caught in mirror and curtains, galloping
a plain room with the horses of day.
I won’t be left here without it.
I spin on my back with the movements
of sky and open my mouth
like an orchestra bleeding.
