huaje

near the temple

beneath this given name,
another, who begins
inside agave limbs,
splayed into sky
& waiting, then

offers
under cover of night
an enormous stalk
to flower unto death

among insects made
of the yielding flesh
of cactus who yield
again, their bodies
to dye
el rojo sagrado

who gather near
the garden, to count
them, the bodies under
other names

and what about cantera
that volcanic mind
stoned beside the bodies
swelling green with water
who know what lives
they carry, not theirs
to own

who only open, close;
store, then scar; give
the body to the bat
to carry home

beside this bloom,
entombed near the
remembered forms

of ancient saints,
interred bones, this gold––

this name
this name
this
name
in gold
these gilded names

wait. even the saints
go to seed, releasing
all that can be borne in bone
to other forms, to spore
to ash, to dust,
then wind
to sky
again.

another light

a remainder’s song

i shatter into another light, something other than this sun,
this nowhere all the time or everywhere at once, somewhere

far from this sun, suffused with bodies, nowhere
all the time & everywhere, among those creatures

carried, fused with their teeming lives, wondering
what is this other light embodied in the photons now held,

ultraviolet & unseen, altering cells, bleaching by this other light
my pigments; infrared absorbed, becoming heat; x-ray passing

through softer tissue to be stopped by what is not. the bees see
some of it, read nectar guides invisible to other kinds, birds read

magnetic shifts beyond their sight. what can it mean to be so
invisible, read only by flux, magnet pulse, absorbed by each body

in her time, beyond sight? what begins within familiar ranges
of perception then moves out, by pulse, the magnet bodies of another

side, into language their keepers no longer recognize, beyond familiars,
knowing i could translate myself back for you, but not without

calling back the keeper’s cage, not without altering the form inside,
as before, so you could reach what translated back

from where i stayed, hoping you would follow inside the eye,
into this seeming dark, to stay. hoping, but you saw this place

as no place, this form no body
what remains

an earlier arrangement

& the persistence of matter

where i am what i carry
limestone in the architecture
of my teeth, old seas
gone hard inside me
the quake of shifting earth
the silent reach of filaments
dendrites threading through the soil
of this place
where i carry
forgotten songs to long-gone
stars
mud ripened by the bodies
i have absorbed into me
by teeth
caught in my right hand, the sick
gathered between my elbows and
my heart, the faces i have held between
these, my grandmother’s hands

some instructions for leaving

in which nothing leaves

I may not have loved since entering
this purgatorio but I have known attractions
fired by recognition
of another body
in whom I recognize
some ancient home
the here-not-here, by rock & sway
of crowded boat, my form giving
against the solemn jag of craggy cliffs
through dark orifices of another war
where some cite the wine-dark sea
of avengers, mourned back
to battle and then dead
whose sons return to repeat them
until all lines of origin are erased
I, too, descend
from ancient clamor,
silenced now:

carbon fixed first inside familiar cells
of marine life: phytoplankton, algae,
buried & altered over eons.

I slept beneath you,
before fire, before when
rough-gloved hands
came to enact what they called
refining
pulling apart
my ancient form: ethylene, propylene,
remnants fastened
into intricate chains.

I know to be molded,
to take the heat of this earth
made hot enough to burn its own
past the capacity for return
I know the sudden cool that
follows, before this
float, where I fill, sink,
shatter

having bottled illicit toasts
swallowed by shrubs in midnight parks,
passed hand to hand in fallout
aftermaths, left beside desert rocks,
emptied by those dying
of thirst to cross
as leaf dies into another life
as whale becomes carcass becomes
food, light, shelter, home.
as bone into mineral, into soil
into tree, then leaf again
by the light of a distant star

but i cannot rot, only break
into finer pieces,
some sand-sized
but never sand:
ever eroded
never transformed

denied my next death
i may only attach myself
to blood, lung, womb, milk,
to inner ear but not to hearing,
to mouth but never song,
to heart & longing
without capacity to beat
& then cease beating.

The living make of me a reef
& come. They flower on me,
then go.

Pulled from our long burial
we are deep time made impatient,
forever arriving
at new shores
as ourselves
unable to become
anything
else.

first reading

pending fluency

before phonics, i read books of creatures,
announced emu to my grandfather’s
startlement & then it was time for

real school. the gray stone building
behind the chain link fence, waves of
traffic in the intersection behind it

where rows, where walls, where
flag, clock, map, crucifix
announced some portent by fluorescent
light. but this, i could not read

or else the body read it first: tongue refusing
the sounds, mouth rejecting the syntax
of that space, coughing up whatever

obedience it was given. sick
every morning over asphalt in the parking lot,
then silence. head bowed, entered

& learned to conjugate what was called
education, a force
with unknown weathers

where beyond multiplication tables
another alphabet coalesced offshore
the widening gyre a storm

then sick again, then home. i went to kneel
near my grandmother’s gloved hands,
over roots threaded through soft beds where

she kept her beloved impatiens
and a running conversation with visiting
birds.

too late to be ancient, like whales, too late
for the soft womb of the far sea.
a creature learns the weather
it must live inside
learns to hear
them

& here
it was too late for lessons in first language but
not for the memory of how she opened

the mouth of her
o

Porifera

the pore-bearers

we learned
the parallel arithmetics
of aqueous forms
anchored before mouths
spouted arguments
before proofs
where every opening
counted toward survival

we did not pursue what passed
through us
or try to map ourselves

immortal on its churn
we invited it in, all the time
& all our lives,

through collar cells
waving come in, come in
through glass our bodies
learned to stand in for
skin, through long chambers
folded inside
our wait

our skeletons chelated
by relation as the reef
entered, its hungers
& light, none of ours to keep,

only for breathing
after being pulled apart
we stilled
ourselves
back
into each other

ask us
to model strength & we answer
by collapse, opening into ever
finer passages

ask about permanence
& we will make in our deaths
a habitat

anchored where the first current
opened us awake
where though we never saw
the reef

we became
its memory

origin song

regarding migration

If you were born where your first language
was never called words, then no one could persuade you
that silence is empty, and somewhere the swifts, the whales,
your oldest kin would still be calling.

They can tell you are far from them now,
but not enough to forget
how rivers remember when rains return, to rise
so sea bells hang briefly from branches now fish-kissed,
and the snakes you watch without naming,
the delta birds—
you wonder if they have heard your other names.

Maybe what calls
is no memory at all,
but the pull that turns whales
toward waters they have never seen,
that curves a swallow’s wing,
the hidden maps of swimming salmon,
the green
that climbs toward light.

Whatever this soft astonishment is—
star-fire held a while in bone,
let it lean
toward the wet-feathered ones,
the slitherers who kiss bark
with their bellies,
the blooming.

And if I remain
half forgetting,
half listening,
let me hear
still, small songs
in the fig tree,
hush of fur near enough
until what some dark cavity

of my inner ear
keeps calling
origin song
turns out not to be

before now,
but arriving,
asking only
whether we are still able
to follow.

first teachers

toward remembrance

This week I have made useful things: calendars, notebooks, discussion protocols, pages students will soon fill with questions I hope matter. By Friday my eyes are bloodshot, nerves down my arm burning again. Every note in my notebook begins, “Remember to make…” And yet. In the stillness of the rare breath, a returning question reminds me: remember what first taught you, love. To look. 

I have had a touch-and-go relationship with standing inside my own truth. Whatever I was as a child seemed to make for easy killing. I wanted not to die. I wanted to become better at living.

My teachers were shorelines & trees; stones & beneath them; beyond the beyonds, where whales surfaced & disappeared again. I followed the tracks of dead writers, looking for clues. 

This week, Heschel offers three things I need. He says, Always we are chasing. And then: Recollection is a holy act. He uses the phrase “Sublime grandeur…” & I cannot remember the rest.

I write each into the margin beside reminders to photocopy poems & order hanging file folders. Also, ear drops for the cat. I do not think she is drinking enough water.

Imagine the composer whose music, too long for the market, sings just long enough for strays to inhabit. Whose reviewers ask politely, must it be like this? 

Thank you, love. For running ahead, then stopping. Waiting until the rest of us catch up. I chase you, passing wooden bodies behind bars. I wait with them, my mirrored selves. Whose arms reach where our trunks may not follow. At the terminal, a woman waits half inside shadow. Maybe to board, or else forever.  To leave this furniture-piece of the self.

To return to the humiliating glory of flesh. Tomorrow the bells will ring again, and my eyes will return to their watering ache. To close & listen to morning birds. Somewhere beneath asphalt, distant roots will continue their epistolary. Further still, whales carrying songs. The stubborn composer refuses to hurry. A sculpture continues waiting in her cage. I follow behind these, in their tracks. To walk as I wait.

the carrying back

on being read

Sing to me, Forest, of your undergrounds
where I wait, hungry, attention on
your warning sounds, willing myself
to root into reading with my feet
your songs, coded in chemical notes: C, N; I
lean in, root to root.

Yours is the song I mean to hear & hold,
to carry back by this vessel
to the others of my kind where we meet among blocks
of concrete, warning bells & sirens
to remember birdsong, heartbeats, susurrations
of our mothers’ wombs

by these waters
at this shore
against these feet, to see
the sea, la mer
ma mère, my mother

to better remember the taste
of being tasted into life by an octopus
whose arms around me whispered before i knew
to wonder what she was by name

to say come here, love. i devour you.
& go, my tongue’s first song meeting hers,
song fleshed back into
this thin-skinned cup
all i have for holding

inaudible birds

pending confirmation

on a summer evening in the Super El Niño year
a body gets to worrying
about the birds
how the babies get thrown
from their nests
in the latest desert monsoon
a week after flocks fall
dead in the heat when
the avian flu once thought confined
to factory farms
has leaked somehow to shorebirds
then seals
then sea lions
as though categories were only temporary fences
& i
want to hear what they are saying because
i worry about running
out of time to hear
meanwhile am going
on an hour now trying to log in
to this airline Yes I Did Reset the Password
& again
& again
locking on one thing i can set right by persistence
& attention to detail
& again
it does not work
with a tiny pink error code
& a miniature number
to call
but not now
tomorrow maybe at a less convenient time
when a body should be doing other work
such as the work of living
or else replying
to indicate that i have received the notices
re: updated student loan repayment plans
& re: SAT registration dates for rising juniors
& then onto work email
re: exciting changes coming this semester
(read: same dysfunction/ same hope/ new flavors. . . & a logo!
schedules & possibly even working bathrooms coming soon!)
& i have returned the bagged lettuce to the store
in response to the latest outbreak of whatever
& my daughter came home without my hearing
over three fans so when I wake sweating around 2 am to text
is everything okay? i get moose emoji in reply
& yah are you? with selfie in bed now my turn
lol laughing emoji eyes not adjusted yet
i read the clock wrong
moose did not hear
& now the cat on my chest offended
by the visible bottom of her bowl
or perhaps because of the fans so loud
or something in me so loud running
wanting just a little more time to catch
the better end of the story
let there be a better end
to tell it forward this time
to tell ourselves and mean it
not
running
& it is not in the end about getting
anywhere
is it?
only not this
running so loud
& so fast
we cannot hear
the birds