Sean Singer


Knowing your shoreline
             its auburn thirst


creatures inside sing
             one has black hair


our legs are gnarled
             behind the mirror


raging with a mountain of birds
             the song plays


but now the bloodhound
             of your heart starves


and wants to get married
             and buy appliances


as the world unto our home
             spreads our grease our pudding


to red hills where loss is



There are few scars
             a slight tremor


a Chinese girl taken out to the forest
             who thought she saw God in the exhaust


it is the full gallop of foam
             fallen like a cake


but it is her—half eaten
             as a man peels off green gloves


meanwhile a woman opens
             zinnias with full pods sucking


the springhead of muscles



Your heat is a shape of a fish—
             pulpy and ecclesiastical


faint hairs on the shape
             like a chain the color of soap


I watched you
             take off your shirt


as the lamp grew on the walls
             do you think about holding


it and your hands gasp for air
             they are precise witnesses


there is a seed in you
             olive of light


sucking the edges
             in the throes of your magenta


I woke from a long thing
             sleeping smell


and you thin as a bean
             said my nipples


saucers spilling dark—



“Abortion” first appeared in River City, Winter 2003, Vol. 23 No. 1.