Tag Archives: relationships

The Great Red Mouth, The Tooth

Published / by Gabriel / Leave a Comment

I dreamt of you last night.

Not you by name or you by face,
but you as the fever under my skin knows you:

The great red mouth opens wide,
the tongue works at the loosened tooth,
the tongue writhes in the brine barrel,
the tongue nails itself to the deck boards,
the cats pace hungry on the porch
for a mouth of meat.

The great red mouth
yawns down a quart of honey,
yawns down a quart of molten salt
what are you trying to cure?
what are you trying to preserve?
you end yourself trying but try —
I’m done trying.

In this dream of you,
I am the tooth; I rock in the gum,
declaring myself
with the copper not-blood taste of error,
with the bent angle bite,
with the wrong cradle, the wrong dock
for the incisor me.

Let me leap loose
from your great red mouth;
clench your jaw and I swear to god
I’ll crack and splinter; I’ll shear myself off
even if I leave my goddamn root behind.

Great red mouth
spit me out, wrench me out,
let me berth off in a bite of red apple
or I swear to god
I’ll abscess myself. I’ll eat you alive.

Buddha in the Garden of Waste

Published / by Gabriel / Leave a Comment

You go inside for more drinks,
and I wander your garden.

You have left it to weed over.
Old perennials suck desperate
at the slums of the soil.
A plastic windmill sways
on a rusty stem, one vane lost.
All the rest hang their faded heads.

I found a fat Buddha
in a tangled flower bed;
hands upturned,
he invites the seasons back,
ever the optimist;
he laughs even as a vine
wraps her hands around his neck.

I’d like to reincarnate this garden.
I’d like to pull up
the clotbur and the crabgrass,
lay down fertile new soil,
plant dozens of little bombs
ready to explode in spring.

I’d scrub fat Buddha
and let him breathe. I’d fix the windmill,
I’d make barren into beautiful

but when you wobbled back,
with drinks in your hands,
I decided I always try
to fix wasted gardens,
and not this time, not this time.

My Love For You Is An Ocean

Published / by Gabriel / Leave a Comment

My love for you is an ocean,
fathomless fathoms
of blue black sea,

but if my love is an ocean,
you are a shore of crags.

You are a snuffed out lighthouse,
a vacant tower on a beach
of rocks, lightless and hushed.
You cast out no warning
that I should not sail near.

You shipwreck me.
You claw my hull open
on the sharp corpses
of dead coral, on shark’s teeth,
on the glass knives of obsidian
islands belched up in smoke
from the volcanic deep.

All my treasures have spilled out
into your treacherous shallows,
swallowed by surf and tide,
to sink and whirl in the eddies
among the hulks of others
who ran aground you before me.

My love for you is an ocean,
and you have a mad captain’s graveyard
where it meets the earth of you.