Ashore

I sometimes wonder
whether I chose this body
in some celestial place, a lifetime ago
did I say: this one.
the red hair
the green eyes
the tall
the lean
the pale
I sometimes wonder
whether I did not make some grave
mistake.

should I not have been half-fish?
I have heard jokes about mermaids --
"How do they fuck?"
and what sweet relief it would bring
to throw a spear
and whisper to a dying man,
"We don't."

what joy to feel no burn, no thrust, no blood
no unbidden fingers prodding, searching
nothing to guard
nothing to give away
only breasts the armored gray of shark's hide
and scaled, unbroken muscle
stretching down from waist to fin:
a weapon made to thrash, to hunt
to tear and defend
and the only sultry part of me a lying voice --
a lure to lustful sailors, pulling hungry ears to ghastly ends
bringing vengeance to the women they have left ashore
with hearts and stockings ripped

I sometimes wonder
standing on the cliffs and watching tides roll by
whether I were not better served by saltwater
whether this flesh is too soft
whether I am doomed
to be forever penetrable and warm
no spears to throw, no deadly tail
only curves of cream and blush
with cracks and fissures
into which the poison may seep

85.

he spent the night cleaning your blood
off the floor and he mentioned her the next day
you have not written about it until now
the letters that spell her name sit foul
and perfumed in your mind
somewhere in the vague Northeast
she smiles

and you have toothy voices in your ears
and they tell you she is waiting
and she is winning
and he says he loves you at every angle
and they ask  you why
and they say he is lying

so your feet bring you back
to the bathroom floor
you stain the rug again
red eyes, red lips
feathered streams like veins outside your skin
somewhere in the vague Southwest
you smile

84.

mechanical like oil slicking through my veins
copper with plastic insulation
and I cannot get comfortable
talcum powdered joints creak heavy
tell my arms to move
but they do not

and swarms of manic bees thrill in a glasswork skull
lightning imagery and gunshot pictures
punching holes into my metal brain
I cannot feel them
I cannot feel anything

a thumping heart beats faster
without consequence

pluck my strings and wait for music to come out
and you will wait until you die
you look at me with water in your eyes
mine are leaking something more like tar
and I can feel maggots in my lungs

for all the perfumes and exotic oils in which I bathe myself
for all the waxen lipstick and black rouge
for all the smiles painted on
there is nothing underneath
except the stink of rot
and old age