Poesten Kill 

Behind the eyes I see glass forms like hands, 

the green leaves 	themselves. I want 

to give birth to my baby with my white 

shirt, my glass bottle, by the waterfall. 

A bottle of water appears, I must 

drink it. Don’t forget. Don’t forget. I wear

my clean white shirt.  		I do it every 

day. I don't make enough sounds. I must write 

it down. Some ink is all 		a page needs. 

These are my materials: glass bottle, 

white shirt, baby. I compose a poem. 

On another page, the word “blood,” written 

in small letters. & the moment of death,

what could prepare us? A novel? A play?

The narrow passages of nakedness?

To be naked is to be cold. That was 

how I felt, those yearning arcs, like the dream 

of clear water moving down the cliff face. 

I go to the waterfall, try to give

the world a child,		 am split in half

against a tree. I birth 		a glass 

bottle, 		name the bottle “Waterfall”

& I love her—the way she glistens as  	

I rock her in my arms—I never had 

a chance			grasping

at the world’s body—roots,  		stones. 		

Many sparrows stirred atop the mountain—

I said, “Thank you God for my bleeding hands.”