GULF WAR AND CHILD:
A CURSE
He is sleeping, his fingers curled,
his belly pooled open, his legs gathered,
still
in their bent blossom victory.
I couldn’t speak
of “war” (though we all do),
if I were still the woman who gave birth
to this soft-footed one: his empty hand,
his calling heart, that border of new
clues.
May the hard birth our
two heartbeats unfurled
for two nights that lasted as long as
this war
make all sands rage, until the mouth of
war
drops its cup, this bleeding gift we poured.
From Eve (Story Line Press)
INSECT
That hour-glass-backed,
orchard-legged,
heavy-headed will,
paper-folded,
wedge-contorted,
savage—dense to kill—
pulls back on backward-moving,
arching
high legs still,
lowered through a deep,
knees-reaching,
feathered down
green will,
antenna-honest,
thread-descending,
carpeted as if with skill,
a focus-changing,
sober-reaching,
tracing, killing will.
From Eve (Story Line Press)