His teeth
tes~.
me; he waits like a good cook,
knowing his own ground. I. fQrgive him that,
as I forgave my Judas
~he
!poney he took.
Now I hold his soft red sore to my lips
as his brothers crowd in, hairy angels who take
my gift. My ankles are a flute. I lose hips
and wrists. For three days, for love's sake,
I bless this other death. Oh, not in air-
in dirt. Under the rotting veins of its roots,
under the markets, under the sheep bed where
the hill is food, under the slippery fruits
of the vineyard, I go. Unto the bellies and jaws
of rats I commit my prophecy aIIld fear.
Far below The Cross, I correct its flaws.
We have kept the miracle. I will not be here.
GHOSTS
Some ghosts are women,
neither abstract nor pale,
their breasts as limp as killed fish.
Not witches, but ghosts
who come moving their useless arms
like forsaken servalIlts.
Not all ghosts are women.
I have seen others;
fat, white bellied men,
wearing their genitals like old rags.
