INHERITANCE
By definition a being invalid. I mean the newer
of the two. Like lunar light. Like a daughter
lit up: unworkable
promise. Or loosely: the premise of fish teeth
too familiar for comfort, washed ashore
to chatter chorus logic
in which the daughter stands dumb, a cup
in hand. Emptying of empty.
The homonymity of I elicits what kind
of listening—
taking one self
hostage or the other. How do you spell it: do-si-do
like mistaking moon and mother. As if
there’s such a thing as strict definition,
reasons the heiress of faces. Literally “air.”
Tucking into, out of. She calculates
the exertion inherent in phasing, picks at
discrepancies between each apparent
shape thrown off her body. A ritual
scabbing toward subcutaneous
scale. Fin to fingernail.
I feel nothing, new, nothing—just thirsty
Somewhere Else
stop struggling
to grow
long hair
regal fabric rolled out
in welcome mulberry:
this is the way we
wash hands brush teeth
gauge the distance
between two centers
all the urges in one person
somewhere else
a robot fairly gentle
touches down on a comet
juice a product
produced
where harpoon breaks rock
broke up ringlets & nudged the waves
a small spring
flatter those victories shifting
blue to red
steps that glided
Tilda on the carpet somewhere else
spectral glimmers
(the way they walk)
brush the knots
out with a violence
so early in the morning
so early in the morning
attempt to move
toward the sun & cartwheel
off the surface
with little say
in negotiating your own visibility
where are you going?
Go Forth and Multiply
i.
When the body loses
track of itself it
grows. You don’t even
need to have sex
to see yourself iterated
in some form. Try mirrors.
Try twisting ancient maxims.
Try visions. The octopod’s
limbs are infinite and
unfamiliar. How they move
toward you, quick and
slick with mobility, how
they are hungry.
How they list
and then disarm
each disquiet with
translucent grip. Many more
than eight. These arms
of mine could only carry
this many
ii.
to start. When the body
loses track I become
all the women
close to me: all our
arms and legs, all our heads
and oiled hair matted together.
A bumbleball supreme.
Not minding not being
out in the world
minding not being me
for a day: to say
here I am is missing
the point. Vertex balloons
to vortex. How solidarity resembles
the stuff of nightmares. We travel
the seas to frighten the lookers-on
who don’t know the secret of
our finitude is what makes us.
The wind without fail
is favorable.