Servitude Poem for a Mid-December Sunday Morning

Wrist, knuckle, plethoric gasps!
I hear them, these bloated grackles, these traffic roars,
And then, it’s a
palm, scalp, straps, abundance—
57 deft twigs sprout off an oak bone
that is a hull, bullish, awful and dear
to the cobalt sky, sky, wrinkled sky
that parts like soprano throat and dog eyes
and odd elegies of
incapable limbs that squabble, huddle,

heave
as only the bereaved and left behind may.

Suspension Poem under the Willful Command of a 52-Year Old Mexican Daddy



Armor of ink, cataclysmic!
Abrupt yank that’s a tug then a plea.
Absurd! I’ve shackled a countenance
To cheekbones and tripe. Phalanges
Tickle the underbelly of the heart like a hog
With no conscience. The thrill of a bigote!
Up here, the whole road afloat, awhirl—
I’m doting.