Brandon Shimoda
from The Grave on the Wall

THE GRAVE ON THE WALL
rises out of a woman
yellowcake on her hands
yellow mouth in her hands

biting a wad of bodiless skin
tufted, Ambitious

exiled to the hatchery of light
brocaded cream of the air
beating time
releasing flat cake through her knees

a wet paddle strikes your face
flayed as wings you make eyes
with the soldiers collapsed

and on layaway
what is your occupation? I listen
to the brood in the enemy hamper
translation caught in the desperation of wanting
to see through fruits that turn tricks
in the gullible rendering of love, Like a ship
grounded on swales of yeast
haunting straight
do not trust the moistness, The prayer

 

Disquiet

Warm flowers in a blank field
                agree
to hate each other
                as only friends—

                the errancy between

                                                for a silent time
—a field through which a mistake is made

unendurably
                colorful

_____________________________________

                                rivers
                                                have risen
cathedrals of song and embarrassment. The blood

                                extinguished. Spring                 is the representation of
the will to end it all           by abundance

______________________________________

At first
I thought
                is it better dead
Then without thinking
                it is, and only—

A familiar hand reaches forward in thought
the way one thought tears into two
                all in common, touching. To be
forever changed, death says
                                embrace the light in the skin you know

 

You want
to be, or rather

forever

_______________________________________

                —who
                                has bested death