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Hush to the mango ripening on the counter–
under the sweetness sleeps the taste of flesh.
Hush to the bringer of mango, the bringer of light.
Inflorescent, today. I'd rather be the flower scar.
Hush to the one who cries resin, tart, pulse–
no strong rootstock, abort, abort.
Hush to the cool fog–the heavy bloom year.
Hush to my devouring, all my ever devoured.
Hush to crown, hush to flesh, hush to pest, hush to hard water.
Back to the green house.
A blush naked stem bearing no buds–still.
I am everything I ever wanted.
All baby wants is a few mourners.
A dream of fighting drown, dream of heal.
In the countless shipwrecks under the hard water–
drab-colored fish eat the muck from inlaid spoons.
But we are the delicate blue china repaired, the note not broken.
We are the ship rising whole to surface.
In this singing–humble bells–the bringer of light
is a whisper of grief–a sound I can almost soften.
Past cracked stern and seaweed, past waste.
The light at the break of water–living and hard.
We are the we, the one–then the hush–and none.
Still–all I need is a few mourners.
A coyote runs down the street after midnight–
open, full run–not looking back.
Still–I see things no one else sees.
There is something I've done I can never take back.
Monumental. A right energy in stillness.
Not a family in sight–floating or flying.
The street is paved to a polish. Quiet smells of spring.
Under the dirt green pushes up–the labor of little hands.
There should be a woman named Birthday twice over.
There is only a woman named Hush.
The ugly dog turns his head to my whistle–
the bringer of light–turns his head and keeps running.
She's waiting there–the house a black shadow behind.
Her fortune spins reckless, her infanticide calmed only by landing.
The bride dangles–still–from the window, the damaged passage.
She waits–ankles raw from the tighten and rub of ribbon.
Pendulum and possibility. Honest lace waves over–
the sedate face cannot wait for the one who cries–
Is there a bringer of light? The fragrant rope is all
that keeps choice: suckle, deny, drown, glide.
Wait on blue dome, wait on living water, wait on open.
Time remains for hang. Wait on my dearest friend.
Quiet spreads through the crowd that has gathered–
she waits–waits for me to cut–give her my gift of falling.
I know there is a science to this–science of landlock,
science of dry ditch. For what it's worth, I am ignorant.
Rains come and flood the finch nest in the roof gutter–
this happens every year–nothing I say will stop it.
Mornings are learning–nights organized forgetting.
Science of write-it-down. The telephone rings and rings.
On the other end is quiet. How do I say what is only
feeling escaping–space between birdsong.
Nothing teaches drought, sterility–the voice calling–
I am the bringer of light–I am stillness and downpour.
Foolish bird. Pure science. I learn not to answer
the phone, not to go out in the rain. I learn keep back, absorb.
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But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
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