curry chicken soup

i have been thinking lately (for the last 6 months) that i should use this thing. people have said, "yes, you should use that thing." i'm resistant for numerous reasons. but something about the date september 10, 2008 makes me itch a little. so let's try september 14, 2009 on for a while.

this is a poem i like.

a reading.

number eighteen

do not try to do too much with your own hands.

you held the body in your hands, they were strong suddenly and your tears were arrows in my side. we watched you work, a barbarian surgeon, poking and shaking your sister awake. you shouted, "breathe!" and your aunt burst in with knives; they reminded you you shouldn't save each one, some wanted to die and it broke your heart, you said, "i'm just trying to keep alive anyone who wants to be," and you felt the world on your back, panting, fainting, rolling your shoulders down and slouched--

number seventeen

do not try to do too much with your own hands.

without two hands, feel the world a bit further, on fire, and you have no hose and your mouth is dry. you can climb with your knees, but the higher you go, the louder the crying comes. you feel your own flesh burning off, crisping and loose, you smell the smoke in your hair. you should close your eyes and conjure water. you should pray that this desert's oasis is a soothing balm bath that coats the earth fireproof. you can open your eyes and fall into this illusion, just so, bubbles shooting up your nose as you cough underwater--

number sixteen

do not try to do too much with your own hands.

in this bright room, are you expressing love? does your slow smile mean desire or desperation, as the book falls from your lap, the carpet softening its suicide. do the wrinkles in the red pillowcase mean you cry when you sleep or never breathe? i watch you walk to me without two hands, the carpet caving before your foot falls, someone's hand at my throat, but no arm to swat at--

number fifteen

do not try to do too much with your own hands.

perhaps you can't quiet the baby but you can knock out these windows without a scratch, and then we can escape if anything comes in after us. when the hungry cat nips at our feet, you can dance while i grab her, your steel hands can hold her harmless until we lock her outside. you can't feel her claws tear at your fingers, but i can wipe the blood off, and your growing hands won't know the difference. you can stir the soup with your finger, you can strangle any stranger, you can push the wrinkle from the carpet-- but you just sit, nervous and shaking, rubbing your monstrous hands in your hands--.

number fourteen

on Midnight.

kristen makes pancakes at midnight, wearing someone else's nightgown. the pan is ready but it's raining; the dog's outside. the raindrops are heavy and cold. perhaps she should've bothered a coat, or shoes. she comes in after the dog, entirely generous, heart-pounding. it's too warm inside. someone's left the tv on. the butter's just beginning to burn.