Lisa M. Cole
Because I will never have a daughter
& my heart is a rusting copper maze
I fold & falter. I only play a one-handed song.
The echoed horses tell me lies &
my ribs are wishbones.
I am a half-time widow.
The fates are confusing
in their signs &
the dead bring no news
for weeks. You say, You look like
an artist right now. Grace
I have my guises//my crushed porcelain masks//I know no other way//my heart in a bag over my shoulder//this strange money//this hell money//this danger money//money cant buy me love//money cant buy me anything at all
by the curve of the cats ear//we laser, hide & haze//we ask if birds have ghosts—what they must do to earn them//& I wonder: //when should a thing not be mended?
when all of Gods prophecies//are wrong; when he needs his own oracle—//the dead will bring gifts://spells & concubines;//rooms full with switchblade lovers//this yellow morning, //I am full//with too much June