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“because I don’t have that
which is in air/ because
I am air—” ~ Anne Waldman.
Bog-backed and mud-slacked I strip down to skin;
–bruises and –scabs and –places I smut-cut
with a blade and –mauled: purple pleasing grins.
This peat transforms. Rinds that bind me wrack what
I’ve come to shed, peel back off my back. Crone’s cock,
witch’s brat; my first love baptized me air.
From the jump drown rock, into red and mock
yellow and brown. Ruelaine and Sal and Sher
and Joyce –all gone. I’ve outlived my teachers,
friends, lovers. “Churn to the primordial,”
she said, now ash blurred in me tear. My skull,
crypt of the Lansing Hell Cats and Pranksters.
Rising. Crud from blood and mud. Dripping foul
from root-booty, cock-cowl. Edgeless. Primal.
