from The Hand of the Hand

The Shape of My Forest

The first morning of my life,
the wasp entered my mouth.

Then,
I felt the skins
twist across my stomach.

I felt my face
stick to my eyes,
glue to my tongue,
cling to my teeth.

Then,
I felt the hair
attach to my skull,
I covered, recovered, the shape
of myself.

Then,
I felt the bushes
in my belly,
the foxes in my breasts,
the octopuses in my neck,
the nettles,
the gravel.
 
I felt the volcano.

Then,
I felt the thorns
and the brambles.

I felt the forest.

The meadows of my stomach. 



Then,
I sat down
and the night came over me.
And the night came to face me.
And the night broke my eyes.

Then,
I lay down
And the night had nothing to say.

 

And the night didn’t speak to me.

Of days,
of my hair,
of the skin I wear,
my hand on the left,
my eye,
my thighs,
my small wounds of a dog,
the skin I wear, 
what my forehead hides,
the arrows that prick my legs,
the tunneling ants
in the bottom of my stomach,
my little octopus hands,
my little sliding hands,
which are warm and search
which probe and rummage.

The night doesn’t speak to me.


 
I Bring You the Honey

The residents close their doors.
It is evening now.

I cook for you, with a little oil,
with a little lemon, with fresh herbs.
I give you both my hands, you give me
a few strawberries, it is your favorite season,
the light is thick,
the neighbors are asleep,
the dogs are licking their fur.

I give you a little milk,
the meat must be well done.
The apples must be well done,
we find them very tender.
They are full of the water,
full of sugars and of red.
We must stir our soups and our stomachs
when they fall asleep.

 


The evening keeps our saliva in its little mouth, it sinks into our eyes, you don’t say much, it sinks into our cheeks, the evening, your eyes are fragile, they are black, they sink into the kitchen.

I put down a pot of honey, it is night on the table.

 

As the Honey, the Wine, the Milk

As
the milk on his forehead.

Or as
the milk on his face.

As
the milk he throws
from his lips.

Or as
the secret bottles
we have
near our bodies.

As
milk that pours itself
over trees.

That disappears
in the trees.

As
milk on his eyelashes
very young.

As
all the milk
that circulates.

Under hair.

As
all the milk of love.

You smell of sleep,
you smell of tears
mixed up with sleep,
you smell of milk
mixed up with tears and sleep.
 

 
As Invisible Things

As we swallow our saliva
when we wake.
As we sense the taste of blood
in glasses of water.
As we live in that order.
I speak to you.

You will say we are so good
and that a small god is sitting in your head.
You will sing words a hundred thousand years old
like an old cook
for sick eyelids.
It will be some warmth.
As
blows to the eyes.
Or like
drinking viscous
and scented liquid
through a straw.

And
the sand on us
will be like little breadcrumbs
under the blanket.

Can you hear the ambulances?
And can you hear the flies
that wash the dead?