Carrousel, or After Lovemaking

[Natalie Handal]  

II

Sometimes I thought I liked
your crimson lips.
Sometimes I thought
your dark-water compass
was mine.
Then I saw the rust
you kept in your apartment,
the bees outside your door,
your half-painted toenails,
the pedal of your chest
taking all the air out.
I heard the harp-weavers
around you
demanding you withhold the music,
strings with the dried blood
of those we are unable to name,
I realized we had both
sleepwalked into
a room of horns.  

I  

I will never die or love enough, you warned.
I didn't believe you. And I was right.
The storms inside you turned into music.
Some intruders became your lovers
but most you chased away.
Stooped beside a basket of cactus,
beside sheets of papyrus,
we spent time in half-prayers,
fooling around with happiness
as we hummed the records we no longer played,
looked at photos from our old cameras,
and heard the giggling inside.

You turned off the oil lamp--
all we wanted
was a new way of finding birth, a slow dance, a carrousel.

from MATERIALIQUE

[julie doxsee]

Today the
sun.


Today the
memory of


dividing
your name


into six pieces
and stirring it


into seven bowls
of milk.