Carmen Fought
The Myth of the Necklace
Cassandra
is a good name for bringing doom.
Carmen
is more cheerful.
People don’t expect
me to come with my fraying
basket of disappointments,
my cold fingers brushing theirs
as I pass them a note
scratched on an oil-stained
piece of paper, don’t expect
me, with my lips
pressed to their ear,
to whisper words
that dissolve their bones.
It’s easy to be an omen, easy
to be a dead snake caught
in a forgotten trap. One maggot
among many living there.
And do you open your hand
to their message?
No you do not.
This is the kind of prophecy I am.
I collect all the times a man
has looked at me with naked love
and string them on a chain, piercing
each slightly through the eye
and I wear them around my neck
to mesmerize my enemies.
Ursa Minor
Where is the saddest planet
stored in the body?
A lunar plexus rises in me
each night. No wonder I can’t sleep.
Anything can be a lullaby. The desk
with its single lamp trying
to glow, failing. This rug
patterned with disappointing footprints,
the books nobody wants to open
but still, their pages whirring.
If I sleep, what shadow-shames
will come due? If the universe
left something in my bones
when do I have to give it back?
I’m sure I’ve fallen like this before.
The memory of a meteor moves
more slowly than its shadow,
until it’s small enough to drop into
a glass of water.
Awaken the child. Open
the door and leave it open.
That’s enough.
The night market beckons.
Tell me where is danger
stored in the body? And who
will someday come
to retrieve it with a tiny key?
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