Charcoal Suite

1. Scratch
Cedar. Molten silver. Black stumps. Bedroom 
door ajar. Fur against inner wall. How
 
the dogs tear at the soil. The way a map
that shows little can be useful. Straddle 
 
and slap. Shall my life twine breake. You hand me 
the scissors. My leg slides off the mattress.
 
Take yourself seriously, you say. Sun 
drops into swamp holly. I walk to the back 
 
of your eye. Does it flower? The lit deer 
tethered in the front yard. Kiss on stomach. 
 
Scratch of pen. You hit the return key hard. 
I imagine a man in the attic 
 
checking floorboards so the squirrel won’t fall. Please 
don’t say process. You write, Dear sleepy. How 
 
much can you see through a slit? I argue, 
just enough. My finger in the crook of your palm. 

2. Char
You of two ex-wives. Me of no husband.
The ladder warns: Keep body centered. Do
not overreach. I eat her walnut bread. 
 
It’s good with sharp cheddar. Did she teach you 
that? I am watching you remember her: 
a movie I can’t catch sight of. But I 
 
smell her: cheese melting on cranberry. Bas-
ket of bittersweet. Deer belly in weeds. 
House burnt black: making way for an ex-
 
pressway. I am taking the USB
memory stick out of your computer.
In the Levinas you circle, Hope does
 
not refer like an awaiting, to some
thing that must come about. Name every 
way you have lit a fire.

3. Nest
There is a knocking. Small and distinct. Hand 
on bark. Flash of red. Swollen river. I 
trail behind. As we drive, rain on windshield, 
you don’t turn on wipers. I’m looking past 
the drops. At the gas station, a hole in 
the canopy and from it the sound of 
small birds. 25¢ coffee. At the 
 
airport, afterward, I head in the wrong 
direction. I say, I really can take 
care of myself. In an e-mail, you say
you are rooting wild holly so we’ll have
bushes for our house, wherever that may
be: bending a low branch to the earth, press-
ing it with a rock and letting it be.

4. Land
Watching a fairytale, I sweat. Cats curl
in a box lined with vermillion. On 
the counter, wedge of soft Gorgonzola,
crostini, red peppers. Sweet. When did I
 
deserve this. Painting of baby ram, on
its side, front and back legs, hobbled. That is 
the wranglers’ term, you write. Also hog-tied, 
but that’s just unpoetic. What makes a 
 
relationship work. Kiki Smith crafts Black
Eggs, 1998. Glass with acid 
wash. 137 units.
Bring grace to this anxious tableau. I stand
 
next to you looking at a nude woman,
back flayed. Another pisses jewels on
the floor. Turquoise beaded crotch. Lucio
Fontana calls his cuts attese, mean-
 
ing wait or expectation. Here are my 
scars: inch above nipple. Left toe. Ankle. 
Ovary to ovary. In the mid- 
dle of the word intoxication lies
 
toxic. I say to a friend, think of it 
as cinema. The stuff in between the 
bones. To move and be elastic. To leap.
To land when you fall. Is it possible 
 
we are unbreakable. Is it deep spring. 
We can draw cuts. A new world. A tower. 
This is our cutting. No baby. No 
nursery. Pigeon alights across the street.