A Stitch in Time
In another story
a boy is made
the funny shape of forgiveness.
A church pew
with little arms and legs.
Funny little smiles
where knees and elbows
secretly bend.
The sign of a cross.
A funny little tickle
of dirty bedclothes
in the back of the throat
whose sorry now.
In another story
a boy is playing dead.
Counting the stitches
that keep his head
from rolling off
into the sea.
*
I want to feel something dead
said the boy
with real hands.
Pants, soaking wet.
A pillow full of screams.
The monster under your bed.
And he does
what every little boy wants
to make sure
he isn’t alone.
But I can only be sorry
so many times,
sorry for the universe
trying to thread the needle
in his chest
to keep him still,
sorry for my button eye
dangling from my poor cheek.
The poor thing
jumping from a burning window
towards
the burning earth.
*
He counts to ten
before he comes
looking for me.
Ten little black X’s
where my mouth used to be.
Ten little treasures
still shinning in the fruit cellar.
Ten black scratches
on the face
of a watch.
Stitches in time.
Ready or not
and he finds me
in a world I had stolen
from the trees,
growing in two directions.
Both in places
where no one
sleeps.
*
In another story
a boy is God
under the bed.
Waiting for creation
to sneak up on him
and jump
under the covers
before he can get his hands
around its ankles.
He lies in his kingdom
of grass
itching
to make a doll to keep him company.
One with the same
green and pointed
expression.
In another story
a boy is a monster
drawing a red curtain
over creation.
Everyone is all cleaned up now
sleeping in the next room.
*
When I’m alone
I can take the straw
out of my chest
and have something quiet
to dance upon.
I tell myself
pay no attention to the boy
getting dressed
behind the curtain.
Which is good.
I’m tired of studying the universe
one stitch at a time,
tired of trying to brush away
the wings of flightless things
from the thin black thread
between my thighs.
I tell myself
pay no attention to the boy
flying above the bed.
He is only looking for courage
in the half empty glass
of my lips.
Which is good.
This isn’t a yellow brick road
you dumb scarecrow.
You don’t have the heart
to stop dancing
as if there’s not a bone
in your body.
*
The tracks are always
In the snow –
Discarded clothes
Bruises
Tranquilizers
The many ways of feeling good
about making it through
a thousand tunnels of love.
Drawing curtains.
Learning all about love
in just one night.
Growing up
in someone’s hand
when they strike
keys of an out-
of-tune piano.
Out there
little dead stars
in a little black shell
of a boy
that you can put to your ear
and hear the sound
of something drowning.
*
Somewhere in the middle of creation
I jumped from the roof
and flew over my bed.
I could see the lights
of a new city glittering
inside me.
Far away the universe
was expanding,
stretching its rope tighter
and tighter.
I think I’m falling in love.
His light is the last
to go out.
When it’s dark
he won’t recognize me.
I can stop pretending I’m a tree
and crawl back inside
his skin.
We can roll into the sea
and my arms won’t lift him
off me.
I’ll be pulled under
as he swims
like a butterfly.
*
Every morning I cut
the wings of flightless things
out of the snow.
I can see the angel
I left behind.
He lies on the ground
like all things
that surrender their flesh.
Things of water
and light
all want to run away
from where they were born,
but their hands are held
down
by children who die
in the night
and return in the morning
drenched in a terrible sweetness
no one ever talks about
until the sun goes away
and they trot out
their little black pillows
and smother their tiny
emptiness.
*
God is not so scary
when he stays inside
the closet.
In there
I can think
his voice will turn into something golden.
A broken alarm clock.
A whistle only dead dogs can hear.
A belt that keeps my pants up.
But he keeps ticking away.
And I’ve run out of places
to run out of.
And the mattress is too full
of needles
to sleep on.
Any minute the doors will open.
Any minute
is as good
as the next.
*
In another story
a boy turns his body
into a suitcase
tied with a black string.
Training the world
to let him leave
places that no longer exist
in his own box.
A tin can
dragging behind his wedding night.
A table
for a tea party
where smiles happen in funny places.
A pillow
for the sea, that it
may hear something rising and falling.
A bed
for the monsters
who must be so tired
of all their Heaven and Hell.
In a room with a broken window,
smoke pouring out.
In another story
a boy’s body is just a stone,
an anchor,
an arrow
making a point.
A thing of water,
of light.
He’s not done flying.
——