an evolved self-destructive property, and on its face

mandibles twice the size of its body,

and can carry on its back, as I have seen on TV,

a rotted bird or branch great distances

to wherever the queen is buried—kingdom:

Animalia, phylum: Arthropoda, tribe: Camponotini,

the species that lives on wood is, like mud, rain,

and time, the carpenter’s enemy, yes,

but I would love to devour the house I live in

until it is a permanent part of me,

I would love to shape, as Perumthachan,

the master sculptor, carpenter, and architect

of India, is said to have shaped, a beautiful tree

into the coffin in which I am to be buried,

I know whatever we place in a coffin, the coffin

remains empty, I know nothing buried is buried,

I don’t know why God keeps blessing me,

I don’t know why God keeps blessing me.

AMERICAN SONNET FOR WANDA C.

Who I know knows why all those lush-boned worn-out girls are

Whooping at where the moon should be, an eyelid clamped

On its lightness. Nobody sees her without the hoops firing in her

Ears because nobody sees. Tattooed across her chest she claims

IS BRING ME TO WHERE MY BLOOD RUNS and I want that to be here

Where I am her son, pent in blackness and turning the night’s calm

Loose and letting the same blood fire through me. In her bomb hair:

Shells full of thunder; in her mouth: the fingers of some calamity,

Somebody foolish enough to love her foolishly. Those who could hear

No music weren’t listening—and when I say it, it’s like claiming

She’s an elegy. It rhymes, because of her, with effigy. Because of her,

If there is no smoke, there is no party. I think of you, Miss Calamity,

Every Sunday. I think of you on Monday. I think of you hurling hurt

Where the moon should be and stomping into our darkness calmly.

LIKE MERCY

I swear a dim yellow light settled around the head

Of the little choirgirl who’d stepped forward to sing

“More Like Jesus” and almost everyone was moved.

Much later, I watched a boy slap the sin out of a man

Old enough to be his grandfather on the street outside

My window and I was happy, for a moment,

That two people could display such shamelessness,

Such a form of love. I would have said something

But my window was shut, the street almost empty

When I stepped out like a man of God.

Who can live like that? We should not have been

Expected to lift the holy choirgirl into our arms,

Though we could have, skinny as she was, light

As the branch of a tree reflected in a river.

I was not one of the women thrashing in the aisle

Like somebody drowning. Work me till I drop,

Sweet Jesus, my Rock, I never said that.

But I know if I was a singer, I’d be more godly.

I’d know how to exit a room flooded with grief.