Linda King

bloodmeal

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pale paper minus zero    there is always a sun

rain slanting like loose syllables     or a blue bowl

you show up    all mystery and eye make-up

forget everything you’ve heard about party bags

the dog sleeps in the doorway    in captured language

those small embroidered moons

are feverish with lonely

everyone  blinded by remorse     sleep or shadow     circle or grotto

a blue  kind of weeping from the pharmacy counter

long vowels like the sound of  birds falling from the nest

count the cargo ships in the harbor    use the nouns as mooring

the furthest edge of meaning after the sun

all those years making place     a self and then another self

sew yourself into your clothes and wait for the ferry home

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in clumsy light unclaimed myths fit your circumstances

all those weather warning     years of shores eroding

things you left behind     sun angles on the brick wall

unread pages held together with masking tape

a ghost philosophy     make an offering    make an offer

the return journey is a place you cannot occupy

an elsewhere next to the world     or this small section of earth

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pose for the camera    wrap it around you like hand to pulse

words wash off the chalkboard like comparative intentions

allow the fiction of prayer     you are always the middle daughter

think it out     pay full price     your confession will never be finished

it’s all vintage violence and bonfire nights where only space will hold you

you gather new geographies full of the dictionary’s orphaned words

watch those three young girls walk that dirt road to school