Poetry

How to Make Love to the Greenhouse

April 01, 2013
The heart is found a hand-length under the earth, turning hard
             sun on the black bed of the sea. The heart’s planted, sung little X
strewn down in a wet acre of a husband’s scroll. Heart, so small 
 
             entire it can barely be seen, slit your seam, song of seed & gloria
gloria, climb me up the wall my guernica—my calamity rides up
             like a garter in the grass. But the heart’s a humid apple & a blade
 
thudding into it. I was lie to me Madonna not, I am lay me down
             Morgana. & fern is the word. It lushes down until I fractal &
mum is the word, stake down, pistils out, nothing more paradise
 
             than grifting this, or a stolen brother’s green kiss. Lovely grafter, 
cut close, & keep a vein’s wound fallow. The heart’s a paper fish
             eating air. Like so many others, it hangs. So call me less alleluia
 
of the meadow, more hallelu wracking home in deep bayou, bed
             of belladonna running. Under it, a monster to make a mineral
mockery of you, all my thigh-high netting unknot to make you 
 
             rise. My heart is a red bell & a trap in the field. Come & get it.
Tall drink, drown it. I’ll be dark lace moss sets the bridal pyre
             afire head to foot. You be slake or salvage, slash or burn, culture
 
shock farming a dirt of lowest desire. Call me kill to catch Lolita
             or simply low. The heart aseed, I’ll be what breaks aloud, savage 
germ. A crush in the tall grass. You be a violet thrust underfoot.
 
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Read an examination of this poem at SHARKPACK Poetry Review, www.sharkpackpoetry.com

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