Solid wood born holes
Rakes, shoals, splits

Salt scores, dragged lines keel

Kiss them all like ladies
Wood stone, it’ll break your fist

This sorry boat was home over twenty; twenty-five
Drop us both deep, deep

Listen; whales sing the high lullabies
For mermaids gone asleep

Jason Moriber (© 2002)

Jason Moriber (© 2002)

Jason Moriber (© 2002)

I tell you how you bring centuries of broken hearts
with you like a cape of the deepest velvet
you make men loll weak before your wicked appearance
and slender hint of warm pulse and hips

I tell you, you are mine all mine like bites and bruises
and the twin stains of lips
in your profile your smile twists like hungry cats

we are as unnoticed at first as familiar house guests
subtle and plain as neighbors and cakes
we walk in a semicircle surveying the party
nodding politely to those acquaintances we remember from other nights

But you,
with a practiced turn you place your figure
at the appropriate curve for Aphrodite and surrender
as the room surmises in firmness and gross confidence
you engage the glances with gloves, garters, and heart
in a fine flesh swagger you dip your shoulders
and the room becomes lit in your sly sulfur flash
the crowd of men and women
and their many tiny white eyes
glance at one another naked and nervously bare
they bend napkins to their faces and talk from behind their hands
with language usually reserved for the little boys room
they brush their shirts and laps with their palms
with one long regard they see right into each other

They aim to smile but are interrupted by the chatter
and keep themselves at their tables
and reach for the arms of their dates and wives
leaning to mumble some note or remark to insure their partner of their close position

as short as breath this flash recedes
conversation circles grow closed and uninterested
and you and I are again under comfortable cover
within the dim flickering of fat candles and dining tables
a room of pillars; the standing ordinary bodies

through the halls we hear the doors to rooms shut ever so slightly
with the uniform sounds of kisses and punches

You grip my hand in recognition of the rise, surge, and wane
and turn to me
within this light, within your eyes
all I can see is myself twice reflected, the deep black of your hair, the crushing red of your lips

and the pert, desirous pleasure you gain from your maddening physical beauty

Jason Moriber (© 2002)

Jason Moriber (© 2002)

This is a dance between my blinking eyes and the birds

If I pull them out of the sky as pieces
could I fit them to form a puzzle on my table?
a muddle of wings, beaks, and eyes like fish
a strange woven carpet, shuddering alive, rustling, breathing
I will look into the millions of round eyes and find a pair
and name it
and blow with a breath and sweep with my hand
and in a turmoil and rage these birds will escape into air
calling to one another in rows and rows of brash haws
Up. Up. Go

As a child I had a mobile of bird shapes on wires
calmly spun slow minutes and seconds
the shapes were flat and seemingly sharp
the birds would be in full profile and vanish in their turning
sometimes there’d be three full birds
sometimes twenty
from the angle of my laying they were coming and going
not by locomotion, but by spinning

When I see birds now I see them in one place
turning to face me, turning away
Invisible creatures made whole by breezes
sucked into skies by wire I can’t see

huge in the scampering of the first rush of flight
vaulting and decreasing
and decreasing, and decreasing, and decreasing, and decreasing.

I would hold my hands like this for you
for as long as you wanted me to

I have the strongest hands in the world.

Jason Ian Moriber (© 2001)