A hundred-mile breath
To unstring sight out of my light-
sewn eyes, to disembowel fear,
as mom says, by rubbing it on my face.
On my tongue a landscape of thorns.
My mouth a messy mountain, a land-
mass of round-backed sounds, a bulge
of bleeding ballads. In my mom’s village,
my toenail rots, escapes from me
as though I was meant to chase it
like growing. Age engluts my teenage years
and unearths me an adult still buried
in his ground. Grind me
into inhalable speech, malleable murmur,
orate me for a bathrobe
of bass. Each morning I wed myself
to wet corners, podium on places
that prey on my legs. Each morning
I’m a corrosion of music among larks,
a rusting and riot, a fire and fiery.
I soil me joyfully, my arms twigging
on trees, my teeth chopping off
branchlets. Unpack a parcel of bees
swarming in my belly, refine honey
like oil on my tongue, mine my legs
like ores, awe at the beg and bow
of bushtits: grey like a strand
of my hair, flying with the height
and strides of four hundred walks piled
on top themselves. In my mom’s house
I browse for stories on her hair. In her eyes
I beetle like a lingerie hung on the door.
My legs are spading the floor, my lower back
a lined sack of rashes. I taste
all that living juices out of leaves,
all that growing growls out of waiting.
There’s nothing like something
slithering in blood, like the hips
of the weather dropped down for rain.
There’s nothing like a stretch of clouds
cushioned on a jagged sky, an uttered
stream run out of a dream. There’s nothing
like a wipe this wet and warm,
a drive driven through
a hundred-mile breath.