After You Left Me in Outer Space
I opened the door and found a miniature zebra
on my doorstep. Each of her stripes
had the sudden afterglow of a lightning bolt.
“Have we met before?” I said
cupping her to my nose,
the nostrils being instinctively better to listen with.
It was then I noticed on the white of her withers
a herd of tinier zebra tearing a lion apart.
He rose at the climax of my eye contact
as if about to roar, but instead said
“Don’t worry I like when they eat me
but damn it stop your scrutiny.
It’s the glare of your inner doorknob I’m after.
It’s the yesterday thumbprint that feeds me.”
The zebras were wet with lion lust
turning their necks triangularly toward me
and I felt some thunder conquer my left wrist
where the bigger miniature zebra had started to kick
and thrash away flies and the flies were
just barely legible. The flies of course
were of this world.
Dan’s Dog Ate a Needle
Dan’s dog ate a needle, swallowed it off my second story
Why would he have chosen such a sharp
to sew himself shut with
if not for a human beautifulness
already discarded in him.
To be unstitched by the surgeon.
To be sewn from the inside back out.
How could a dog correct the symptom of hunger
with a fine art so mechanical
and nervous, the stomach
an emblem of long distance?
It was the pink thread that caused the abscess
not the needle,
the way it caught in the roof
of his mouth and the lip of his liver
and the phantom rim where the soul sits
even in dogs.
I am not afraid of you anymore
that you have suffered the surgeon,
in the midst of your dragonhood, your moanless
resemblance to death.
He must have liked the thread, the surgeon said,
and the needle came along for the ride.