by Aichlee Bushnell
May 2008

nineteen

hope cradled in treetops, we lay
wrapped in green smiles and youth.
summer arms aching, boy and girl
entered forever, trumpeting ourselves
against the muted landscape.

hearts cast in cement and sadness,
our bodies unfolded into maps
triggering life lines, fault lines–
our son born by the bright vernacular
of night birds between refrains of gunfire.

mommy say

don’t touch iron
hands flash hot
burn splits skin

flash

iron hands split
skin burns hot
don’t touch mommy

marc: 1

first time, just a box
sitting there empty, my head
pounding, i threw it at her.
didn’t mean to hit the baby
but she left anyway and came
back four days later. she kissed me
with snowflakes in my beard and
i promised, never again.

remembering winter

ordinary cries of evening trains
around factories’ burnt brick
and a thousand shattered windows:
memorial architecture inscribed
with the holy names of lovers and
the dead–mother, sister, me–
huddled together on a pull-out sofa
in the wood-paneled basement–
framed by reproductions of black lovers
embracing, rows of dark liquor,
gingersnaps and sweet tea–
mother’s plum-colored eye.

dee-dee

inside the familiar
curve of an elbow
a kiss unravels the
fabric of her skin,
shroud of her voice,
lint from her navel.

mysterious tongue
tastes secrets tucked
between thighs’ quilted
sanctuary.

rapture mends the
broken architecture
of a sinner’s soul.

marc: 2

next time, in summer, after dinner–
velveeta shells and boiled sausage–
said she was tired of living on my
sister’s couch. i don’t blame her
but i can’t do this alone. promise. eat.
work. sleep. promise–i will not let her go.
i panic. snatch up my son by his arms.
he cannot breathe.

domestic tranquility

when
half-sleep
you smile
a blue rooster
winking spider
eyelashes against
faded morning air
and dream familiar hands
curving caress of tired thighs
i rediscover gentle crescent moons to
forget yesterday’s unforgiving ridge of knuckles.

mother’s song

breathing slow colors
she waits inside of windows
face creased with green pain
praying that a new sun rise
to polish hidden corners.

armchairs rearranged
she weeps alone at the dining
table leaning into one
bony brown fist, tears smoothed,
folded into linen.

how many times has she
sat there crumpled into
her own paper skin
making sounds against
walls unheard?

marc: 3

there is no air, but a blade in my hand.
the boy cries, smelling like crayons
and shit. i know this story too well.
he called out, daddy. as if it weren’t
me standing there slicing through his
mother’s pleading palms. she could
not say stop. fingers peeled, paring knife
in her stomach. it came easier than i thought
–her final whimper.

in the kitchen

our three hearts,
soles scraped,
painted shirts,
and my breast cut
open to keep you
breathing my blood–
despair carved under
ruffles of laughter.

still

inhaling moments
together we could burst time
if we wanted to