In childhood, my father loved his meat and potatoes.
Once there were towers. Towers of the radiant sun.

Thrones of them. My sister is queen. My brother king.
Curbing anything oceanic. The stalks that grow from

This world are like any green feast. They are perfectly
In rhythm with the sleepless sea, that mocks me. I have

Found so many people now that worship my fear
For them. I anchor myself in the closet behind winter

Dresses I will never wear. Protection needs order,
Routine and gravity. Norms and values. It is not easy

To sway from the blue of the sky to where East meets west.
The Oriental girl with her matchstick legs gives me

My cookie to appease some sinful nature that I have
Forgotten even exists. I am the scapegoat, the lamb, the

Unmarried woman, the insomniac, the nurse, the confidante,
The keeper of secrets. I answer the telephone. Wait until

It rings three times before I pick up waiting to hear
His voice but you see it is complicated. Great men are

Often complex. Relationships with great men are often
Complicated. How I long for the sea’s body to cover my

Own. The weight of water. It is fire. How it burns. How
It sates my skin. It goes down like a single malt whisky.

I am in Ward 7 again. Tara. Walls closing in. Evaporating.
Becoming fainter and fainter. Fading away. Bars at the

Window. People indifferent to me. Nurses aloof. Angelic
Creatures who are in possession of night medication.

I take those pharmaceuticals. I drown in them. An empty
Vessel or royalty. I fly home. Onwards towards the light.

Sweet Jesus. A cave of flesh. The birthday girl with her
Twenty-one candles. The pastor strums his guitar. We all

Sing hymns. Later we eat cake like there is no tomorrow.
Later he plays the piano. Much later, years I turn thirty.

The rural countryside
Has its own welcoming committee.
It has its own encyclopedia.
It has its own dictionary.
Every year I throw a parade
In my honor. Why not?
Why is family always hurting family?
Describing matters in the system.

Do they not have anything better to do?
Like make love, instead of war.
Stories about family life
Will mature you in old fashioned ways.
Sickness depends on culture.
Maturity depends on your mother.
Great poems are meant for the dark.
For night swimmers. For viewpoints.

Rape is found there.
At the end of the world.
The halo of the laughing carcass.
Ghost stories and erosion.
Birthday girls and photographs.
The dodo bird and the rhino’s horn.
Excuse my blood, my church hat.
While I visit the museum.

Fragments of summer
Ravenous village of stone –
Sadness is wasted in youth
A wilderness history of it
We are on a path walking
To meet each other on a road –
A road filled with studies
I have a wounded body

So we meet in a rural forest
Or on that sunny road –
You have a wounded body
I was scared of that vision
In all of its sacred glory
We are lovers of the Arctic Circle
If it still exists. We were family.
We were sons, and daughters
Before we were poetry.