On the Eighth Day

Claudia Grinnell

And here, I said, behold
the angels living in this cave.
We have tortured them
into confessing
about the heads of needles, and the number
of times God made
us in his own image,
and who held the mirror.

Once Again, Tell Me What It Is

I. Proper Way to Fall in Love

Not in Port-au-Prince
when you're down
to your last Gourde,
not in Algiers, Tripoli
or Khartoum when Cassiopeia
drops her veil
but when all you have left
is a sentence
about gray nightingales--
the color of life.

II. Probably, This is Love

This is the first line
of a poem nesting precariously
in the crevice of my elbow.
I am not saying that
to alarm you, but to draw
your attention to the blossoming
sprouts of yellow hibiscus
right there at the tip
of my tongue.

III. Afterwards, Everyone is Covered with Fog

For at least 99 incarnations
as a limbless, worm-like
amphibian [skeleton mostly
bony] during times
when dragons rule. Don't fret,
mein Liebchen, ma cher,
it's your face
that's taking form.
I conjure you, and you arrive
to open the door,
in an old black and white movie,
to put your hand on your hip--
there's a shadow across your face
and your voice is raw
from Whiskey and cigarettes.
And I fall in love with you,
you, a derelict sailboat
with broken masts.

Claudia Grinnell