Rachel Loden
Black Sun on a White Sun

I will die in Brooklyn in a shitstorm
on a day that staggers like a memory.
I will die in Brooklyn—don’t fuck with me—
maybe on a Tuesday, like today, in February.

Call it Tuesday, then, because today, Tuesday,
even my humeri are on bass ackwards
and never like today have I turned back
against the freeway signs, to see myself alone.

Rachel Edelson is dead, least-favored daughter,
I killed her, and she did nothing to me;
I beat her once with a cane and twice

with a walker; testimonies from
the Tuesdays and the backwards bones,
the batshit loneliness, the brakes, the roads....

 

How Do I Brand Thee?

How do I brand thee? Let me replicate my praise.
I brand thee to the depth and breadth and height
Of earth’s dominion, and then out of sight
To claim the spinning stars and endless space.
I brand thee to the whim of every day’s
Most craven need, by cathode tube and plasma-light.
I brand thee methodically, as robots scour the night.
I brand thee in the nursery, because I have my ways.
I brand thee with the passion put to use
In breaking ponies, and with a corporate cowboy’s faith.
I brand thee with a brand that seemed to burn
With my lost shame. I brand thee with the breath,
Dread, sorrow of my secret life; and, if Moloch choose,
I shall but brand thee better after death.