Decalogue
A revolving door rotates smoke, water, fire;
the smell of gunshot, bed sweats, a secret affair.
I am a housewife and a mother of three,
a Bengal tiger has fallen in love with me.
I am discussing saffron with Elvis while dressed
in a bejeweled gown at the post office.
A wisdom tooth floats in my green tea.
Mother is a card shark and grows a white beard.
I accept an award in high heels and pink knickers,
then fall off a cliff and almost land in the breakers.
Then give birth to a red dove that speaks Japanese,
she’s the Virgin Mary who coos please please.
An invisible bullet enters my stomach.
I reach in and pull out the seed of a pomegranate.
A man enters, a frog prince, a klepto, a Jew,
fever-starved kisses like purple dew.
I’m lost in the streets of a love poem by Eliot;
the air is yellow; the streets are immediate.
My fingerless hand against a full moon
is now a bloody sheet, now a headstone.
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