On Eating Flowers

And what keeps me
from eating flowers?
was posed to me
by e.e. cummings
alone on the lawn
in the straight sun
this afternoon.
and I thought
well bees I guess
(is the first thought:
wasps, sleeping, or even
merely browsing), and dirt
which the wind has neither
blown away nor
the rain carried off yet.

Or perhaps the opp-
osite, too much sweetness.
And that the bees would then
come to my mouth
instead, think I
the flowers and
thus render me
unemployable, worse than
dead -- bitten, swollen,
spitting and cursing:

The fucking kiss
that stings.

To eat flowers and
not be afraid.

To taste the death
of their passing and
enjoy that sadness, to
be just ignorant enough.

And I think of the one
for whom I keep the best,
whose mouth alone
is worth it enough to be that bee.

And I find
even just one of her
blooms.


2011

Galveston Island

I know the seawall, the ferry, the seagulls,
the old bread from the freezer door to feed
the seagulls on the ferry that takes us to the
seawall, picnic bench shanties on the beach,
jumping waves with my brother, the taste of
saltwater and sand: Onward! Deeper! then asleep
in the backseat on the way back home wrapped in
wet beach towels; our collection of shells,
hermit crabs still in their homes, now in boxes.

Drift too far down the shore and it's too far
back to walk; bike too fast down the seawall
with the wind pushing you on and there is no one
coming to get you. My father will say, "When you
get old enough to drive, remember to take out your
car and let it go empty just to see how far it will go.
Keep a gas can in the back with enough to get home
but find out just how far that needle will fall."

Like in school when you take your compass, draw a
radius, pull it through to create a circumference:
this is how much my legs can stretch, as far as my
pencil will reach. I find this advice to be true.
Or perhaps I turn it into truth, like the seagulls
following our ferry for freezer bread, drawing fewer
circles as years pass and living within their curve.

But today we sink our toes deeply in the wet mud,
write our names in the sand with sharp sticks and
watch those secrets wash away in the rising tide.
A circle knows what I wish it to see, and I say
Onward! Deeper! to the ocean: carry me off
to the end of the coast with your drifting.


2011

Thanksgiving Chicken

Nathaniel and Katherine Yardbird
hypnotized each other
in the uncrowded coop
for more less
egg laying,
accidentally let slip
unfortunate missives
-- spicy bits, the
snake pit, the cock
a doodle calling --
and, peeping,
proceeded to bring
into life
a perfect bird
with wings and more
which we now
will eat.


2011