She said, I gave you my name—I called you.

And I watched her tongue like a whip of ink

write my name in the air.

My Brother, My Wound

He was calling in the bulls from the street.

They came like a dark river,

a flood of chest and hoof.

Everything moving, under, splinter. Hooked

their horns though the walls. Light hummed

the holes like yellow jackets. My mouth

was a nest torn empty.

Then, he was at the table.

Then, in the pig’s jaws.

He was not hungry. He was stop.

He was bad apple. He was choking.

So I punched my fists against his stomach.

Mars flew out

and broke open or bloomed.

How many small red eyes shut in that husk?

He said, Look. Look. And they did.

He said, Lift up your shirt. And I did.

He slid his fork between my ribs.

Yes, he sang. A Jesus side wound.

It wouldn’t stop bleeding.

He reached inside

and turned on the lamp.

I never knew I was also a lamp, until the light

fell out of me, dripped down my thigh,

flew up in me, caught in my throat like a canary.

Canaries really means dogs, he said.

He put on his shoes.

You started this with your mouth, he pointed.

Where are you going? I asked.

To ride the Ferris wheel, he answered,

and climbed inside me like a window.

¿Qué me admiro?

¿Quién en amor ha sido más dichoso?

SOR JUANA INÉS DE LA CRUZ

Grief Work

Why not now go toward the things I love?

I have walked slow in the garden

of her—: gazed the black flower

dilating her animal-

eye.

I give up my sorrows

the way a bull gives it horns—: astonished,

and wishing there is rest

in the body’s softest parts.

Like Jacob’s angel, I touched the garnet

of her hip,

and she knew my name,

and I knew hers—:

it was Auxocromo, it was Cromóforo,

it was Eliza.

When the eyes and lips are brushed with honey

what is seen and said will never be the same,

so why not take the apple

in your mouth—:

in flames, in pieces, straight

from the knife’s sharp edge?

Achilles chased Hektor around the walls

of Ilium three times—: how long must I circle

the high gate

between her hip and knee

to solve the red-gold geometry

of her thigh?

Again the gods put their large hands in me,

move me, break my heart

like a clay jug of wine, loosen a beast

from some darklong depth.

My melancholy is hoofed.

I, the terrible beautiful

Lampon, a shining devour-horse tethered

at the bronze manger of her collarbones.

I do my grief work

with her body—:

labor to make the emerald tigers

in her throat leap,

lead them burning green to drink

from the deep-violet jetting her breast.

We go where there is love,

to the river, on our knees beneath the sweet

water. I pull her under four times,

until we are rivered.