“They call us killers, honey,
I say with teeth clenched around your jugular.
You’ve got them graveyard hands,
nails dredged up from diamond mines,
bones screaming bloody murder.
I wear combat boots and only smoke Camels,
like how you look with a noose around your neck.
Teach me to breathe poetry in the hollows
of your spine, bruise my name down your back.
With teeth made of cigarette smoke
and wrists of chewed leather,
I keep you perched on pretty legs
in the passenger seat of my father’s old car,
radio turned to love songs we never learned to sing.
We weren’t made for that marrying kind of tender;
we kiss like addicts hungry for a hit.
We are fighters, not lovers –
poets who plot murders and get drunk
to find God or our mothers’ ghosts,
spend all our time applying assonance to bar fights.
You’re good for alliterations and throwing punches,
you keep the boys hungry and on their knees.
I’m not good for much at all, baby,
A useless kid with knuckles bruised from living –
Killers, honey, killers.”
Newborn snow monkeys are full of energy and curiosity. (It’s a good thing mothers are patient!) Watch a clip from ‘Snow Monkeys,’ airing on Nature on PBS Wednesday, April 23: http://youtu.be/A4WzpZzb_jA
“They stay in my mind, these beautiful people,
or anyway beautiful people to me, of which
there are so many. You, and you, and you,
whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe
missed. Love, love, love, it was the
core of my life, from which, of course, comes
the word for the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned
that some of them were men and some were women
and some — now carry my revelation with you —
were trees. Or places. Or music flying above
the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun
which was the first, and the best, the most
loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into
my eyes, every morning. So I imagine
such love of the world — its fervency, its shining, its
innocence and hunger to give of itself — I imagine
this is how it began.”