What’s in a breath that spirals stone
from the first miracle of the wet earth?
You lie between the night and I,
on the edge of a swaying moonlit door;
smoke of pregnant eyes finger
the hermit stripped-skin of light,
motor flowers of the Third Reich,
mad voices of the rain.
Your honeycomb voice on the panting dice,
a lung blossoms on sleepgrain dust.
Memory in sea-sleep light,
a wound on the wet November skin.
you’re soft in my mouth
at the edge of mad-bred light;
Madly inhaling beneath the pilot sky,
naked I lay amidst spider voices in glassed walls,
under sperm-speech hands in baroque light;
Your fingers are switches that turn me on
The wind-walls spun,
and my aorta, like a moonleaf,
shrank without a voice.
Seconds after they touch me,
They leave me half-open like an unfinished book
I screamed for you Memorina,
as they led me through yellow stations
without a sign or name,
Your eyes are blades for the mermaid song
They spat at my face
and sliced with blades Carthagian ovaries.
Ladylight, you carry the germs of the night,
in your freezing handbag,
and the cosmic breath-dream womb
on fading Auschwitz lips;
the room has no language.