Terrible Blooms. Melissa Stein
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Slap
14 Wormhole
1 Rapture
4 Ring
5 Hive
6 Bind
10 Almanac
11 Husband
12 driveway
14 Eulalia
15 Quarry
16 Little fugue
17 Dear columbine, dear engine
18 Dead things
19 What sound
20 Mouth
[ i ]
Harder
If you’re going to storm,
I said, do it harder.
Pummel nests from limbs
and drown the furred things
in their dens. Swell creek
to flood, unhome the fish.
Everything’s gone too cozy.
Winnow, flush. Let’s see
what’s got the will.
Let’s watch what’s tender
choke or breathe. Try
to make a mark on me.
Beast
Tadpole with legs.
Hawk with a long tail
that is a snake
dangling from its beak.
The apple limb
grafted to the plum tree,
blue Mustang
with the dull white hood,
Ken with the head of Barbie.
The boy with a new plump fist
of heart or kidney
or some shining pins or discs
or a thick, imperative tube
fastening a mechanism
of breath. What’s wrong
with me is you.
blessings
may your harvest fit in a sack may none of your apples be sweet may barbed wire tear off the snouts of your pigs may the mirror show the scarecrow’s face the moon shine on your wedding day may the milliner embroider your bonnet with nettles the blackberry fell your dog may your every joy grow a carbuncle may your eyes go to milk may the moth make its nest in your bedclothes the wind blow sickness in your ears may your husband leave you for a crone may his mother season your cooking from the grave may corncrakes gnaw your sour bones a shadow fall across your shadow the mice lay their eggs in the mouths of your children your children have the blacksmith’s eyes may tracks lead hunters to your door your fingers melt like candles may you succumb to god’s terrible kittens may the wolf carry off the heart of your heart and the swans swim thrice by your grief
Birthstone
Facedown in carpet,
arm pinned behind me.
Oh, opal. Oh, tourmaline.
Oh emerald of the cool, cool shade.
A jewel is buried in this
pile I will find it with
my teeth. Pearl from grit
wrought me. Do you know I
have hopscotch and dandelion,
weathervane, watering can.
I have a story, I am skipping
out into whiteblue checkered
yes that is an apron, edged
in rickrack, whipped
by wind into the shape of
my mother. The sun behind her.
Cut out of that light with
pinking shears, steps out
with face and whole hands,
entire: that old apron
wrapped twice around
my waist, kitchen soldier,
jade milk-glass mixing
bowl wire whisk and sifter,
the floured board, the dough’s
shagged