ARRvol34 master reduced - Flipbook - Page 124
On Certain Nightmares
It was all some nightmare, and I’ve learned to say so, with patience
and steadily. The shadow that the moon made billow like a flag
for war in some poor bastards’ country, like moonlight ebbing the way
you learn to think of luck, like oil on a sheet of dew
that’s frozen. The shadow that the sunset stitched to both the hands
you’ve raised because you think the mirror’s more than clean enough
for twilight to notice this time, at least, and if not, to have patience,
at least. But sunset needs your lips; your foreskin’s not enough,
she says, as she clicks her tongue, and throws your eyes away.
Sunset pulls the pairs off, and cuts them crosswise, as her hands,
like waxwings drunk on ilex, miss and slash the next might do.
You must not, even in nightmares, let your attention drift, or flag.
I’ve learned to pull my skin and dick off, to dry, to make a flag,
and stand right crisp in salute, while nightmares and moonlight eat my patience
(a runny scramble, well salted, with the curds turning custardy, just firm enough).
Moonlight’s sense is that broiling niggers’ is a better way
than some sundowns, reasoning out some need or wish at hand,
suggest. But daylight’s better than nighttime, if that’s what you want to do.
And if today (put on the meat and bone) your body’s way
could start to make some sense, they’d cut the fingers off your hands,
get predawn robins to stir the stewing; swallows’ll add a testicle too,
and sheets of steam come off the pot, like a hot-dew, a snapping flag
where water leaves the rendering fat you watch cook off your patience
and ribs. Evening’s careful to singe the fascia just enough.
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