No Zinc

Everyone’s talking
about the dirt
she ate. About the myths
she created to defy
those creation myths
she read in a fog.
People return to the bluff
seeking some redemption
in a poet’s stare.
What’s she hiding—what was that
she just spit out
onto the stained
concrete floor?


Esther to Lester

She stands outside the mouth
in fear—it tastes like dirt—
a gummy red, soulful clay soil.
She passes through

this entrance daily
to travel into that deep, pitch,
sometimes dank, place
inside herself

where she plucks poems
from vines. Too dangerous now,
this passage might cave
into her, she might crumble

into a thousand tiny pieces
of a broken heart.

Cell Phone Cyclops

A camera placed
in my hand for the first time
in as long as a road
of memory can wind
into back woods, I’m an uncertain 

chronicler. Not sure how
to make a record
this way, not sure I want to 

tell a story. I might prefer to steal
an image or two and retreat
to the dirt on that trail.

Sycamore (Day 1,353)

In the throes
of my intention
disorder, I forget
your name, how to reach
the top of you, how to
let go of those limbs 

you wave over me.
In these fits, the stories
I tell are not mine
except when they are.
That I come from ash,
that my mother left me 

in the rain
without a skeleton
shelter, that I still
eat dirt (raw not baked)—
these are some of the ones
I intend to qualify 

when I no longer suffer
from disease over the way
jacks wish to cut you down.