I Don’t Know Who I’m Becoming

but I’m alright with her, glittering sheath,
skittish claws. Oscillation on a pedestal–

or gray eyes. Calamity, not a shake
but a kiss, or blow. Try to dip her

hair in water and it hardens, there’s no
such thing as soft earthen curls, there’s

no such thing as a lie; only what birds
see from the power lines, fence-jumpers…

I come from the haus (dom) of Drakula,
but who is going to believe that? It wasn’t

written that a Polish family from Warsaw
could carry a torn sheet of cloth across

the plains to find–not a castle–but a crag
where we’re all lying now, caressed by dirt,

sun-bleached grass, wooden hearts. That’s
where the coffin derives from, hollow dry vessel.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s