In the house of my father, his shoulders
are a fortress against weeping and his head
longs for comfort, a nest of breasts
to wilt among. The breasts are sometimes
offered, but my cruel wheel of yearning
winds into a throbbing knot which aches so
for the merging of deep with deep.
Mother house, dank underground chamber,
giver of life and tyrant, giver of breath and slave:
you have my worship, my body, my senses,
pungent oils and sour flames,
warm caravans of ostrich feathers,
pillow-mounds of pleasure; the slick
thigh of night rocking.
Father, with coolly sky bones of values, giver
of answers and wings: you lead
into speech, the written word with its objects
to hold like metal keys or wooden lathe; but no
witness, no true knowledge of my name,
so I return again and again exiting your door,
entering hers, a sleepwalker following
the aroma of bread, the sound of water.
Bricks and mortar combine in me, a laborer
in the amphitheater of my own soul,
laying the foundation for a dwelling
beyond my swollen roots. It is here
I will bring the bride of myself,
through mint fields and catkins. Here
between cedar ceiling and oak floor
is the room for ravishment,
its birthing bed and hazel light.
This piece originally appeared in the journal One Meadway, published in the spring of 1992.