2 by Me

Fashion tips from Atlantis

You do look good in grey
And I don’t look bad in blue.
So I guess that this is just another highlight
For this thing.

I’ve taken the kitchen sink, the carpet, the desk, the cat.
You, though,
you have a DaVinci sprawl over the futon
a foot points to the mountains
another to the sea
An empire claiming dominance over an IKEA piece.

I stake out the couch in my fort of grief and blankets
I’ve claimed it tonight: It is mine tonight.
Tomorrow will bring new war.

Me, the aggressor, will charge at you there
I’ll trap you in a titanium Hercules grip
You will see what I see

Me, the victim, will lure you down into my sage hide
A salty place of seaweed and clams
My hurt is going to soak you
You will feel what I feel

You remain the agitator
You remain the instigator
A golden-haired Perseus, full of hope and stupid

You’re going home this time, after this war
But my binoculars are expensive, marvelous

In this division it is a wonder
what about partners?

Mama

With pale hands frail from her starvation,
She grasps desperately at her failing breath

It’s been awhile since she inhaled
She breathed in deep once, deep into her lungs
She breathed so deep once that she became full.
So round like that great mother Gaia-
a pregnant anticipation
- waiting for the rain to spill into her crooked places,
Seep down deep into the body of it all
She was made ready.

It’s been awhile since this was easy.
Back then, everything was in, out, in, out…
The breath came out quick, in spurts
It was so sustained, that breath
She could suck it all in with a gulp,
She could spit it all out with a sigh.
She had it figured out.

The ghosts of her limbs tremble like an aspen in winter
Gravity has proven a greater obstacle than expected
It’s still there: the fat infant gnawing at a shriveled breast
Heavy with awareness, it gnashes tiny teeth at her skin
now grey.
Plump fingers dig into places where once there was meat-
It leaves her torn and red.
She is milkless; it is hungry.

This long exhalation is coming to an end.
Her meager fingers reach for her chapped mouth;
Maybe she thinks she’ll pull the breath out
Out from the bruised lungs so crowded
by cracked bones.

Ice bone fingers grope inside her, into the drought.
Meanwhile, the infant wails.