Jenne Micale


leagues of copper wire twist into our umbilical.
	i am new jersey with carelessly tossed
limbs on chair and sofa, sore wrists, the
blank screen eye, and sacha the houseplant
	your moon- i am the fetus-
are you the mother with your ephesian
diana breasts?
	     your blood lips purse in
maine.  the cat's in the colander, you giggle.
your voice is a stream.  silver fishes dart
and the random drowned fly.  light
patterns webbing the eye.  ever trickling in
soft oboes.  not the niagara but more
sweet for its honey.
		   folding towels at your
mall job as your white teeth recite
lady lazarus.  reading D.H. Lawrence on
your break.  those asshole maine boys
with their backhoe intellect and big penises.
	i love you better.
go, you say.  your phone bill could solve
the national debt.  words ready for leaving
like autumn.
	   but your stream flows swiftly then-
and orinoco.  your window overlooks the steel
gray sea and the graveyard.
Copyright CrossConnect, Inc. 1996