Blood Fortunes

“Blood Fortune”

 

just one prayer:

take my brittle bones

scattered in jack pines.

do you know this kind of isolation

can you speak a name into the wind and have it be

or hash out the workings of your fortune

for the fortune is of your blood?

my blood is black and oily, and it does not know

gold

 

just one prayer: hoist me above the world, so that

looking down, I can see the looks of their faces

and catch their floating candles. hear my

delirious eulogy, probably pregnant with

lies

 

wrong turns brought me here. she tells me

discreetly, senses my weakness. over gaunt cups

of burnt coffee, her face is very serious

talk about

things in your soul that conspire to kill you

to end your life with brittle and ancient

precision

sounds of a bolt action, the steel parts falling into place

firing pin cradling its love, ignitions.

suicide dreams on beautiful black afternoons

where I can comprehend the terrible in ways that

only invalids and crazies

imagine

 

in the end most of our lives

come down

to the things we tried to buck early on

and if you aren’t shoved into the pits

when it counts,

then it’s exactly like swimming

against a thousandfold currents.

there are fine membranes in sanity

cut too close and you may tear

the savory tissue, the razor thin

tallow lining; and then cannibals will

devour the spoils

 

just one prayer:

bring me to the womb of the earth

I can’t remember anything but her anymore

my life looks like the bald and scorched prairie

they say, “you’re young”

I say, “I’m dead, when will I die”

“don’t talk like that”

“don’t talk at all,” is my reply

Star Harvest

harvest the stars

to sugar bush moon songs

wavering

at the verge of no one knows

teach the child

say old things to her

to him too

carry on like

white pine brother

coyote sister

pretend into the world

a peace again,

wildness, stout

chaos. chronicle

follies, where victory

may shine over

tragedy, but

let tragedy ascend

victorious

in child eyes

imagine into the world

a heart of possibility,

to hear like a drum

in the absence of

wild songs