From “Spring and All”
mak is the touch
of the potter, the thumbprint
on clay
the unfinished warp of wood
and braille
of grain
and knob
of rope that hangs
the squid that is dried
for days
then eaten
with wine
fermented from
dredges
of rice—
the Joseon potter
adjoins two hemispheres to make
a white
lopsided moon
exalt in these
imperfections
the act
of creation felt in
the thing
—not the smooth
not the screen—
and this grief
that has no release—
grows inward
rooting into
my spine, and
from my head sprouts a flower
of gossamer blood
threads,
bash it—
bash it in.
and the stones weep water,
and the stars sink
underwater.
_____
a puddle
of tadpoles tickle
her cupped
sunlit palms
twenty squirming commas
each with a beating heart
—amphibians are living
sponges
for pollutants—
she releases them
into the pond.
I tell my glum students
who are trapped
on Zoom
I’ll set up a Google doc
where we’ll share
favorite poems
that remind
us of touch
and poems appear
like a scattering of ants
then
trail off
why bother
jerking off’s
numbing
vibrator needs
charging
can’t tickle yourself
when you can
predict your own
move-
ments
a poem can’t replace
his breath
my ear
spanking that ass
volunteers at the NICU
massaging preemies
—tender newts—
so they’ll
thrive
O cuts and thorns
that leave a glove
of hives,
my mother never learned
how to hold
a baby
though she spoon-fed me
till I was five
—she was a devoted mother
the obit says
when they don’t know
a thing about
her—
