one by one, she said,
& she placed yet another on the string—
her hands, stained by ink,
rummaging through a dictionary &
thesaurus & the wet negatives
in her mind, brain synapses
becoming words, women
becoming fairies, dreams
becoming figures cloaked in colors,
& everything becomes a
clumsy chaotic pile of beads saturated with melody,
an audibly acryllic symphony of sperm & egg
& yesterday's conversations about god & history & dinner & why he loves her,
& her fingers grasp bead on bead,
stringing them on form and flavor,
how they roll sumptuously off her tongue,
until a necklace emerges &
a poem receives the breath of life.
& you can almost see it:
the naked, youthful poem
rinsing the blood from its emancipated body,
how it stretches its gaudy limbs,
rubbing the sleep from its newborn eyes.
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