Two Poems

THE SOUL OF ANYTHING
After Hilma af Klint

I was trying to leave this world
for a sobriety of my own making,
where symbols could be the soul
of anything. I began wasting away.
I began botanically, clipping
sharp corners into clouded
middles & summoning spirits
through cracked doors.
Each door expressing a hunger
much larger than previously figured.
There—the hand that feeds & there—
the hand that cradles & is a net.
There—the coral language spoken
between those verging on the veil.
Daughters are keepers of images.
Looking to the mother-mirror
to remember, forget, remember.
Looking to the X-Ray to see the heart
is a circle & on its edge lingers
a hermit crab, dogmatic & demure.
Disturbed & flirting with light.
With being erased completely.
Could a shape be rendered
for this upward glance I have?
Could this seeing not just see
but divulge the translucent bloom?
The chase is fruitless but the chance
to glimmer its magnet is useful.
At bus stops I began seeing
monarchs & pennies for my dead.
A motley crew, sauntering past
when I pay attention.
I have only known rhapsody
in paying attention.
I can only construct this
because I’ve been near to my dead.
Take me to the place whose center
is a conch. A shell whose shatter
is a music without form.
Daughters are keepers of images. 

CARE IS THE MOONLESS CAPE OF TENDERNESS

It was Spring & I no longer recognized myself
making of my gestures a puzzled logic
I wrote a list entitled True Things
I watched how it became a process of subtraction,
          how a boulder might imagine itself a gem
          how a sentence orbits its own compression

          —I can experience this w/ you.
          —I cannot experience this w/ you.
          —The tangerines I picked felt corrupt b/c I stole them.
          —And stunning. Like Madonna. Like Grandma.
          —Some days I can experience everything w/ everyone.
          —I eat a block of cheese. It makes me ill.
          —The music is wrong but I don’t hear it.
          —The water in my body is dictated by orbs.
          —I am trying to be placid but the sink is a terrifying shape.
          —The tulips in the planter are totally demonic.
          —Isn’t it stunning to experience things?
          —I apologize to the crow.
          —This is a description of making a choice.
          —This is a description of not having a choice.
          —I apologize to the crow.
          —I read words so bright they become the way I walk.
          —I wear these sneakers that let me say whatever.
          —I take a vow of silence.
          —The best wisdom is gained casually, sloshing the rich paints of idiocy.
          —I should call Grandma.
          —The sink made me odd.
          —I wanted to get to the middle of another heart.
          —I tried to go there with just this tiny speech.
          —The boulder is a gem b/c failure is the story.
          —I am the I that will forfeit my story.