c r o s s
c o n n e c t
a n i m a l s
L E N N Y D E L L A R O C C A
And all the celestial animals claw at the black ground like men.
The bright pig grunts, a raw star burns its hoof.
Digs the back yard where my grandfather
cursed and peeled oranges in the hot afternoons.
The squealing beasts blunted by the fresh dirt. Stones in buckets
of rain steal throaty sparks.
Roots of upturned trees gouge the air where the snorting of hideous
fire-giraffes blast the smoldering peat.
Green mules play black-dirt poker.
I eat dogs torn from the sky while they howl in my arms.
Mother, I said, behold your son. And it began to rain blood.
© crossconnect 1995-1999
published in association with the
university of pennsylvania
kelly writers house