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SEVENLING: ROCK STAR
She feeds me rocks for dinner,
grit for breakfast,
bitter gall to wash them down.
I spit out pebbles one by one,
wash them in vinegar,
stain them brown,
knot them in a belt, and watch her drown.
SEVENLING: YOU DREAM
You dream of slips, slits, buttonholes,
an Atwood poem, an unhooked eye,
a big bed growing cold.
Three things you'll do before you die:
unsheathe the knife, unplug the hole,
write blood-poems on the sky --
and close the bleeding eye.
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