Hands Half Face

Don’t think of me,
I won’t think of you.

You baby pinprick,
rain from the roof of my mouth—
I’m not terrible for them,
I’m terrible for you.

With swarming thunder,
sudden fertile
soil fans itself dark
below your window’s belly,
your eternal flame,
your lost ache
regained by touching you. 

I am that hand,
that terrible half face
through wooden rooms
under clapboard drains
within the frames of mirrors. 
I am that pile of ash
that blows back into you.

From “Kiss Me With the Mouth of Your Country” (Dusie Press 2007)
http://www.dusie.org/KISSMEWITHTHEMOUTHOFYOURCOUNTRY.pdf