Only Now

The hound is real, even the one disguised
as a sleeping owl, with which they replaced
your heart. Blood magic is more than the four-day
hut. Daisies, when damp, can grow in the canals
of the ear? The question underscores the basic
belief that menstrual contamination is achieved
through a fixed gaze. Once I thought I was a bird.
Feel the box spring throbbing sound. Look left then
left again. The clock on the wall is a compass
heart turning always true north. Blood is not contained
in the veins but flows inside to out, transgressing
bodily boundaries. Month after month
we become more of what we lose. Thus a hound
is an owl is the heart of a red-tail hawk
dusking the sky a fleeting rust as it circles above.
At last this wind flattens the grass. Sit with me
to tea. Say Gyokuro three times with your head
turned to the left. Cough. Now cough again.
The body is sewn shut and nothing can escape.
Which is why we let the dogs loose at night
to guide the swamp. The legend says
there’s a kerosene lamp lit only by the grease fat
of the moon. Noxious weeds in the badger
dens. Thrive. Select me my milk. Moth flight
is part of myself burning myself away. Even
the hound part of my heart spits and shadows
like the flaming glow of a tree. When you float
into the lantern you see yourself
through the perspective of a root. When you plunge
into your heart only the hound remains.
Everything small falls away as everything
smalls. Blood magic in the ear. The left
as left. Mantra diksha in the right.
The pounding mouthing now.