12-Face Type

Fragment

2008-09-11T01:14:00.000-07:00

I know you love it when I don't tell you where things go and what they pertain to. That's why I do it so often.

Would I strike him down if all things
which had occurred played out again?
I cannot know, and yet my dreams
resound with yes, yes, yes, pounding
upon my breaking walls. The throb
of aches held in my skull reduce
me pulse to pulse. I falter, and
memory, fragmented, bitter,
fills all my cracks with crunch of bone
and weight of death. Rotting brother's-
flesh, clinging mud, the stains of blood, oh!
Still I see it, red as red, but
never recall his face or eyes.

Oh, to be mute and deaf and blind!
To have crooked limbs, a dim mind!
To love my brother, be at peace
when God and father love him best;
to shield my mother, innocent
of all but suffering, from cruelties
of my making. To prove my worth
as first son, first lover of earth;
to hold more than murderous rage!
This clay vessel that you shaped
wants substance, wants more than most men
know they lack. My shape is human,
but my face is a rounded slab.
My eyes are beads, my mouth is black.
Your thumbprint lingers on my cheek
where last we touched. Toolmarks scar me,
but time erases all mistakes,
like all craftsmen not in haste.

Oh, curse my name, and let me die!

Aila, Thogrim, and Kiren Sketches

2008-07-23T19:01:00.000-07:00

Aila looked at the carrots suspiciously. Unnaturally orange under the dirt, they defied her idea of a proper root. Potatoes, parsnips, turnips, onions: all were meek, quiet things. But this simply defied reason.

Finally, she turned to her companion, asking, "What god would hide this color?

Kiren laughed and gently pushed Aila to the side. "That question assumes they don't do things to confuse us," she replied as she began to clean the vegetables. "Carrots are eaten raw, boiled & mashed, roasted, in pies—easy and tasty, too." So saying, she broke off a piece and offered it to the skeptical Dwarf, who chewed it slowly.

"Well, what do you want to do with them?" The two women talked over the chopping and mixing and firing of the oven. As they waited on their pie to bake, they sat at the table and compared their favorite recipes. Aila smiled, trying to remember how long it had been since she'd enjoyed such pleasant female company. The Twosummers child is a good girl, she thought, but can be so thoughtless.

"I'm glad you're here," she said, patting the younger woman's hand.

Kiren stiffened, then looked down and murmured, "Thank you."
—————

To Be

2008-06-10T23:57:00.002-07:00

I was lying in a field,
surrounded by wheat like
jutting lances waging war
against the sky. The clouds,
confused, travel an impasse,
to be raked by the claws
of trees, black against the light.

My lips are the stage of love:
parted, parched, but red yet;
and kisses, rare now, tickle yet,
though players of today rarely
own your subtlety. To crawl
is not to kiss, and yet the touch
shares sometimes your intent.

The gold of my hair weaves
in among the nests of rodents
and small birds, and settles
where only roots and worms
have comfort. A corvid also
found a treasure—jade—and
carries it always. To be
useful: This is paradise.

In spring, the flowers blend
into the sunset, forgetting
to exist; summer bleaches them,
and, wearing dull smiles,
they accept all; autumn
burns and buries them;
winter lets them rest.

On the Death of her Lover, my Brother

2008-06-10T23:57:00.001-07:00

Dry leaves
softly stirring,
soundless.

Dry hands
with paper skin,
harsh bones.

Spanish:
Mi amor, mi amor!
"My love."

A smudge—
mascara runs—
bruised eyes.

A smudge—
the make-up thins—
bruised palm.

Spanish:
¿Por qué, Dios?
"Why, God?"

She cries
like only she
has lost;

she mourns
only what she
has lost.

Spanish
wailing; gaudy,
for show.

The Traveller at Sea

2008-06-10T23:55:00.000-07:00

Turn again; face the mist:
somewhere lies the fading shore
of Providence.

My mind forgets, and yet
through gates of horn come dreams
of memories:

Sunlit days spent with you—
who drown eternal—fill nights
on shiftless seas.

I turn once more, and search:
not for that celestial shore,
but land at all.

Segment of a Winter Renga

2008-06-10T23:54:00.000-07:00

Winds cut through dry grass
and icy dewdrops shiver—
The wolf is alone.

The river of heaven gleams
above echoing laughter.

Men circle a fire
sloshing wine into their beards.
Wolf cries; smiles flicker.

In a village far away,
festivals pass uncounted.

The moon waxes, wanes;
leaves burn, fall, and fade to ash.
Hollow women sleep.

The cold wind steals away dreams
of half-forgotten faces.

The grain rots afield.
The ghosts of former evenings
shimmer in the wind.

Skin

2008-06-10T23:53:00.000-07:00

The message that I sent
under the ink of my letters,
around my spoken words--
on my kiss:

Soft fingers down your spine
whisper on your skin,
which shivers back
the same sigh.