|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|But Wind Is Tooth
It is a primeval tension
a pressure that remains
as a skull holds and does not hold
its own death.
What it protects it keeps for itself.
This is wind’s secret.
I do not want to know wind’s secret.
The mouth of wind is jagged and hanging and
cold and cold and this is the lost longing of wind
where I erode to a splint of body
no longer available (no more whirl
no breeze of lip no waste except when the not-wind
and then yes then the tender wet memory of it).
I do not want the memory of it.
I do not want that shard of lung that wind
that cannot exhale only reflect
(not light there is no light no corner of day
no crack) walled and blind.
There is no inside here (and what of the wing
the cloud-open the flush of grace)
just this rib-cave the closed white of body
the gummed stone of body
(where and where the scatter the sieve the soft slump
There is no wind like a basket.
Why is there no wind like a basket.
About Jeanne Stauffer-Merle