the Jupiter rings
beneath my eyelids
have hung themselves to spin
on hoops of speed.
it is a ceremony and every
night I wear my sacerdotal nightgown.
I am catching chalky loaves in my mouth,
and I am waiting for a ghost.
a drooling, steel baby, it is I-
coughing up bits of organs,
plushy, fat blue bulbs of Wednesday,
expelling my mother’s Tuesday.
a little bit of heat will do the trick.
a stick or two- three pumps
and the blood is baptized,
boiling blessings, blossom-bruises.
I, nestled on my glass trapeze,
am playing movies in my eyes,
licking my fingers and pulling up
pages of a magazine.
you are listening to the priests inside
of my stomach-
do they speak God?
does he speak English back?
out into the air I make words,
sounding out like beaten horses.
I let the floor catch my phrases,
I let the sheets decide to hold my weight.
when I turn
onto my pink heels,
I won’t look back to see the
wine I’ve spilled.
I am the hebrew crown
and they are the sutured tourists.