Ruth Comes To Me (in a dream)

She always does.
Long red hair like the sun or crayon blood moon,
Eyes milked over shaking like a tea kettle, a jacket made out of fish
scales, eyes wider than any moon you’ve ever seen, I promise.

She says she comes to my dreams
Most when I am trapped inside my home
A marble trying to fit
The outside world in,
I want to call her mama – thinking she’d understand, I wouldn’t
Put my head in the oven, but America put me inside now.

Mama, the world is a wound
And you saw it always saw it, and I feel
Too scared now that I’ve seen it too.

Ruth is smiling now as big as the sky, big teeth next to the sun, her
Voice louder than the tv, but I can’t hear.

Her blood moon hair is wrapped around me, pulling me
Up to the sky, I don’t want to go to the sun, I say. I cry like a baby.

Mama twists me out of her longest hair, and places me in her hands,
Still young, painted red fingernails, she’s the red woman now.

Things will be different, her voice is a whisper now, it’s our
Secret, me and mama.

Now I sit alone in my rented apartment. The cat on my lap,
No victory on tv, just sadness like mama sad, no more laughing kids
outside, a galaxy broke but we did it to our selves, but I think of
Mama, I think mama was right,
When the sun dies,
We will all become one.

THE SKY DID FALL

Was it always bluebirds?
Upside down, a paradise
left golden hot red?

Could it be the fur
on the belly of a rabbit?
The deep glow of an iris
tie died blue green together.

Creek of the grasshopper
outside the blue window,
clementine sun-sky
sometime early morning,
humming iridescent opal
hanging on its side, the deep
blue dark night time, the leonids did call
for you, the beesĀ asleep in their cribs, the buzzing,
it’s you, deep dark voice like night time,
paradise golden, the big boom of the sky falling
for november, just like Lincoln saw too, baby moon
the sun burns hot red, your feet
burned, bluebirds singing,
tied together, the sky does not shatter,
the big bloom of the circle sky opals,
the leonids did call on you, me, tied together.

 

(how to) Continue On (the moon)

You never looked like the moon
Had I always been good at turning the conversation
upside-down to me, about me?
I get so ashamed that Ashbery is sitting on a table
covered in wax, he says something about big bad hollywood, the parallel
universe of tiny baby little new york,
a big tree covered in yellow acorns, he reads my poetry
and he thinks it’s funny, the bad kind of funny louis ck present-day, the cackle squad, always invoking
his echo, he will say.
You never looked like the moon?
A big crater in the space-sky, backlit by somebody else’s
flashlight, why would anyone want to look like the moon he asks,
as if I am supposed to know, am I supposed to know?
Are you proud of what a moon sees of you, tiny new york?
He asks me once, until he is melted all the way through to bone, his mouth
waxed out of his own face, tiny puddled fingers, a body stew, wax everywhere now
even on the moon.