Cutting Odette’s Fingernails

Who is the barber

with the straight razor

at the neck of the Mad King,

the physician of the Don

who must hold his broken feet

and cloudy wisps of hair

from between his legs

while he knows nothing?

The possibilities

are numerous—what jobs

we get ourselves into.

I feel like at this moment

I could be anyone in the world

because I could be

a hundred objects

of torture—whatever

has been done, I read

somewhere and cannot forget,

these five senses at the knuckles

broken and healed,

submerged in salt water

and ice, waiting to be brought back

like the peat bog murder victims

into the century of data.

I didn’t come to perdition

I changed perdition

stood stock-still

and changed

abyss—planted something

in the dust bowl

made abandoned

in the blinding sun

and let loose cattle

knowing I used to get

obliterated and wander

the streets of New York

looking for takeout

a pair of scissors, waiting

to open me like a lily

I used to bang my head

against the wall

the audience

the neighbors used to dream it

and do it

wine glasses in the sink

against one another

in my bare hands

the world was clay

worked into something

too heavy to carry

I had to let blood

the physician of my own

imbalanced humors

I experimented

all that misuse

it seems so insane now

finally, it feels unclear

in my mouth

with this vowel

that has come off me

like a soap bubble

this target of glory

a tiny bright oligarch

an opium substance

of my chromosomes

who first almost comprehended

the full moon while I held her

in a field on the mountain,

pointed at it and said ball—

now her infant hand

is palm-down on my knee

like a starfish, and

her translucent fingernails

fall to ground

like the husks of old stars

wished upon, granted,

forgiven for whatever

defeat seemed so important

for so long—that desire

to be laid out on the marble

and sewn back up—

no, it all went differently—

I see it now; how

we tend to hold pain

so close, as if

it is all

we’re made of.