II: Rooms

Shut the child in a quiet room
where broken shadows shift and loom.
Visit him on sunny days.
Leave him crying. These are the ways
the world decays.

In the blue prairie light of
early morning a tall black bird floats
through the sleep-deserted halls and
settles like an early dream on the boy
in bed. Neither 30 generations of warrior
blood nor the soft silence of his own
body can protect him.

Put the girl where she cannot speak
because of the ghosts that shudder and squeak.
Let her wander on sunny days
alone and growing. These are the ways
the world decays.

The cool yellow sun of early evening feathers
the birch trees. Their thin paper turns to
light, but nothing here can rise. My
soul is mud and I cannot even remember
how my own tongue should say mother.

Lock the man in a chaos of breath
ordering pleading
quitting needing
badgering binding
ignoring blinding
soothing hating
loving waiting
Let him witness his own soul's death
while the city rattles on sunny days
steadily working. These are the ways
the world decays.

I have seen seven beasts. None
of them would kill. I am
afraid. Who will I
fight? Who will
be murdered?

Seal the woman in a body not hers
where the muscle and bone refuse to obey
and age squats laughing in her womb.
Let her remember the sunny days,
his body's smell, the quiet room:
the ghosts that shriek as she bends her joints
can blacken even the sunniest days. These
are the ways
the world decays.

I spoke to my sisters. One
bore a fish, the other, a
clot of blood. I stay
awake because I have
borne dreams.