A Lullaby, for the Fir Tree Growing in My Left Lung

All we know of history

we learn from scenes in the mosaic of bone

on the Senate floor:

The Flood makes graves of the fields,

and the angels harvest enough suffering

to live for another thousand years.

Moses pulls off his beard and lights a cigarette,

I’m tired of pretending.

He pushes his box of spare commandments under his bed,

and as he drifts to sleep, his eyes, like caves,

fill with paintings of woolly rhinos.

Sailing ships forest a small island.

One light shines from a caravel — captain’s quarters.

It’s Christopher Columbus.

All night he’s been sewing shrouds

as arrival gifts for the natives.

Little Chris presses his bleeding fingers to his mouth

and cries quietly, No one appreciates me.

God and the devil tuck him into bed.

It’ll get better, they say.

Together they complete the shrouds for him,

while he dreams of golden nipples.

As it was, it is now.

Spring translates the earth into hope — 

tongues of grass taste the sea salt on the west wind

and the blood on soldiers’ boots.

This morning, one of the old poets — unkillable cockroach — 

cycled past me, yelling,

On my dresser, a spider makes a web

along the contours of my bra.

We lie on the bed together;

I run my hand up the muscles of your leg

and feel its eons of evolution,

now outlawed by the Senate.