White men no college

White men no college
never read Virginia Woolf
on the toilet in the morning
early morning, 5 am morning
not having woken up but
never having gone to bed
never having felt that sleep
was safe, or that time was plenty
holding her in hand like a white dove
Mrs. Dalloway on the roof
deck of a bus headed away toward the city
white men no college
will live forever without that scene
will grow old beautifully untouched by ache
dusted with golden flecks of hate;
white men no college
have in their canvas hands
the bald heads of daughter babies
whose eyelashes are infinite
and hold in them a future
empty of trees—perhaps—busy with busses
who might go away, far away, to college
and hold in her pale hands
a borrowed novel, a stream of conscious
a woman she might someday be.

—ECW

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Mojave 

A desert underneath

The crooked line that makes the shore

Which calms and curls the sand back

To an image of itself.

The winding pull of water still

Remembers every grain of sand

It’s hot rough essence, the quiet still

At the bottom of the current

On the crest of a dune. It calls out

With a winded hush, what matters now 

Is water, what has always been, 

what will never be

Enough. A desert underneath, 

takes time to quench. 

Night dancer

image

Mayflies track false moons
flying sideways and over
one another to catch sight
of language written in
bright lines
spoken to them
in night lies.
The mayfly is papery
floating outward
and down
able to catch only
a moment airside
before gliding under.
Mayflies fall always for light
in a candle or a lantern
believing this to be
their guiding source,
a thunderous ache
for revival, but
things are different
now that ever street corner
has a stoplight
and every home
a well lit number.
–ECW

Confession Thread

sorry about the random halt post last night in the wee hours.. for those of you on the email list, 1 am is not my prime hour for technology 🙂

Confession Thread

one in the morning:
now, in my smallest form
I come to the doorway
and unravel myself
I put on the dress – the white one
from that last spring,
when we straddled the curtain
of the dressing room
and laughted with our bellies
for the last time
you said it wouldn’t be the last
white dress you bought me
but it was

Quiet the preocupied rustle
of liner and lace, the dress
once lovely dangling from the hanger
is ugly on my limbs
but I know better
it fit once
the zipper is stubborn
the buttons are stiff
but I know better
I know better until I cut my thumbs
the zipper is stubborn
because I’m different now
the dress – the armor of my loss
is a poor silhoette of my body
was made for a younger form
and I wonder, if I would know myself then
If I saw me from across a hall,
with something esle on,
on someone else’s arms
would I know me

–ECW

Poem 138

There is a gravity in me

my arms my lips my legs my eye

lids forbid youth for gravity

My hips, a long winded sentence

My breasts, a run on rambling

My chin, an incantation

there is a gravity in me,

a slowed down tumble

I am older now than I have ever been

my body knows it, my body dips low

And graces ubiquity – back to the earth

she says, back to sublime

in time, the ventricle sings, due time

-ECW