.
"Sometimes It Wears Thin"
The salon smells of wet-furred
anticipation and stress,
yet no patroness removes her human skin.
The open-close door chimes like
bells on a cat’s collar—
humble reminder of domestication.
"Transition"
The midnight sun grants ablutionary warmth,
a brittle armor against my sins. Nightly I wrap
my skin in skin, in pelts to shelter the mind
within whenever my bestial hunt begins.
The mind recoils but the body hungers to sate,
to sate sate, to tear in two with nails and teeth,
to gnash and gnaw a neighbor's flesh, nip and knick
his bloodied bones. The skin of my skin itches—
a symptom to sharpen the self. On all fours
retching, my foul breath catches
until the midnight sun
lets its light fall to me.
"Skinning"
..........My uncle shot the deer. She toppled from the backdrop, a cleverly hidden, tawny prop.
We circled her with drums and chants.
..........[To remove her skin is like stripping back layers of plastic wrap from a raw cut of pork
or beef.]
..........We set aside her autumn pelt. Uncle raised a dagger, but deer run on instinct. She ran
on instinct, her gleaming body of crimson stria no longer conforming to the forest, no longer
a fluent brown, contour-triggered revelation. She flowed, sinew and tendons, in taillight streaks.
..........With no weaving unseen through backdrops and no mild façade, with wild grace more
hot-blooded than lyrical, without being a still deer—is she still a deer?
"A Wild Stallion"
acrid breath from stallion mouth
a solar wind, a stellar sound
glances teeth against sharpening steel
guards bottomless throat and foamy stream
unsecure sockets for starry eyes
mane scissors through dark air like knives
slender pair of ears work backwards
while around him the cloud-storm churns
miraculous horse, nebulous head
stallion mouth with acrid breath
"Cripplewing"
Cradling little white Cripplewing
I say to myself, and to him, I say:
“What becomes of a mourning dove
when it’s himself he mourns, my love?”
Startles me, little white Cripplewing,
when he sings to me, and himself, he sings:
“What happens to someone like you
when it’s himself he whispers to?”
These poems are in various states of completion. Those last two haven't been revised as much as they need to be.
I've only put up one verse of "Transition" here. The second verse is the same form but with the speaker embracing the transition from human to beast. At first, I thought it was about cannibalism. It started with "The mind recoils but the body hungers to sate, to sate sate" and for a long time I had little else to go with it. A few months ago, the phrase "skin of my skin" was haunting me. When I scanned my fragments of lines, I realized they went well together. Now I think it's about a werewolf, so I've embraced that turn and added lines about the sun and moon.
I definitely see my voice developing when I compare the newer work with older work. I hope I develop more of my own sound!
.
"Sometimes It Wears Thin"
The salon smells of wet-furred
anticipation and stress,
yet no patroness removes her human skin.
The open-close door chimes like
bells on a cat’s collar—
humble reminder of domestication.
"Transition"
The midnight sun grants ablutionary warmth,
a brittle armor against my sins. Nightly I wrap
my skin in skin, in pelts to shelter the mind
within whenever my bestial hunt begins.
The mind recoils but the body hungers to sate,
to sate sate, to tear in two with nails and teeth,
to gnash and gnaw a neighbor's flesh, nip and knick
his bloodied bones. The skin of my skin itches—
a symptom to sharpen the self. On all fours
retching, my foul breath catches
until the midnight sun
lets its light fall to me.
"Skinning"
..........My uncle shot the deer. She toppled from the backdrop, a cleverly hidden, tawny prop.
We circled her with drums and chants.
..........[To remove her skin is like stripping back layers of plastic wrap from a raw cut of pork
or beef.]
..........We set aside her autumn pelt. Uncle raised a dagger, but deer run on instinct. She ran
on instinct, her gleaming body of crimson stria no longer conforming to the forest, no longer
a fluent brown, contour-triggered revelation. She flowed, sinew and tendons, in taillight streaks.
..........With no weaving unseen through backdrops and no mild façade, with wild grace more
hot-blooded than lyrical, without being a still deer—is she still a deer?
"A Wild Stallion"
acrid breath from stallion mouth
a solar wind, a stellar sound
glances teeth against sharpening steel
guards bottomless throat and foamy stream
unsecure sockets for starry eyes
mane scissors through dark air like knives
slender pair of ears work backwards
while around him the cloud-storm churns
miraculous horse, nebulous head
stallion mouth with acrid breath
"Cripplewing"
Cradling little white Cripplewing
I say to myself, and to him, I say:
“What becomes of a mourning dove
when it’s himself he mourns, my love?”
Startles me, little white Cripplewing,
when he sings to me, and himself, he sings:
“What happens to someone like you
when it’s himself he whispers to?”
These poems are in various states of completion. Those last two haven't been revised as much as they need to be.
I've only put up one verse of "Transition" here. The second verse is the same form but with the speaker embracing the transition from human to beast. At first, I thought it was about cannibalism. It started with "The mind recoils but the body hungers to sate, to sate sate" and for a long time I had little else to go with it. A few months ago, the phrase "skin of my skin" was haunting me. When I scanned my fragments of lines, I realized they went well together. Now I think it's about a werewolf, so I've embraced that turn and added lines about the sun and moon.
I definitely see my voice developing when I compare the newer work with older work. I hope I develop more of my own sound!
.
