Tuesday, June 1, 2010


I am no longer Woman-Full-of-Holes.
And behind the skin of what I am
is you. Your name
can change a heart of stone to
shattered glass, to plaster, powder and to sand,
or flesh,
to more than thing-that-sometimes-beats-for-you. I am
whelmed in the over-flood, but me
and my body,

we float,

watching the idols and things that make holes
spark final flames and try to spit
red oil, and black oil,
on a sea that rises too steadily
to stop.