Toxic Shock Syndrome


The metabolism of disaster
Is slow and fatal.

A sudden appalling recognition
As seven tons of ungrounded mountain
Hits your face
When a mudslide swallows
Those tiny but beloved shacks,
We build again,
But blame ourselves,
We should have seen it coming.

Shame fills our mouth, 
In addition to the stink
Of someone else’s garbage,
“I loved that mountain,” 
We say, “that so magnified the sun,
And made my soul sing, like the first mountain
Climbed the first woman.”

A timed explosion in my apartment,
That ticker biting off the seconds.
Was it the red wire or the yellow
I was supposed to cross?
It doesn't matter; I was watching
The swift, gypsy face of the moon
Grinning eye to eye
Across a breathless span.

Stockholm Syndrome
They call it, so difficult not to love
The one that took you, 
With purpose
Knew methods to put you in that state
Told you just enough truth
Told you not to assume the worst

Made you laugh
The food seemed like a gift
The first food
For what seemed a mutual hunger
The last food
And no gifts

Don’t humans give each other
Comfort, report on the damage at the scene,
Bring bandages?
I would offer balm to the one I burned,
Unless it was not an accident.
How does one metabolize disaster,
All information withheld,
Healing is impossible without truth

A toxic spill
And I make the geiger counter

Cradle Moon

A Ghazal for the Curtain Call