Incarnadine Read Online Free

your name
    in my mouth, give me
    spiny fruits and scaly husks—
    give me breath
    to say aloud to the breathless clouds
    your name, to say
    I am, let me need
    to say it and still need you
    to give me need, to make me
    into what is needed, what you need, no
    more than that I am, no more
    than the stray wind on my neck, the salt
    of your palm on my tongue, no more
    than need, a neck that will bend
    lower to what I am, so
    give me creeping, give me clouds that hang
    low and sweep the blue of the sky
    to its edges, let me taste the edges, the bread-colored clouds,
    here I am, give me
    thumb and fingers, give me only
    what I need, a turn here
    to turn what I am
    into I am, what your name writ in clouds
    writ on me

On Wanting to Tell [      ] about a Girl Eating Fish Eyes
    —how her loose curls float
    above the silver fish as she leans in
    to pluck its eyes.
    You died just hours ago.
    Not suddenly, no. You’d been dying so long
    nothing looked like itself: from your window,
    fishermen swirled sequins;
    fishnets entangled the moon.
    Now the dark rain
    looks like dark rain. Only the wine
    shimmers with candlelight. I refill the glasses
    as we raise a toast to you
    as so-and-so’s daughter—elfin, jittery as a sparrow—
    slides into another lap
    to eat another pair of slippery eyes
    with her soft fingers, fingers rosier each time,
    for being chewed a little.
    If only I could go to you, revive you.
    You must be a little alive still.
    I’d like to put the girl in your lap.
    She’s almost feverishly warm, and she weighs
    hardly anything. I want to show you how
    she relishes each eye, to show you
    her greed for them.
    She is placing one on her tongue,
    bright as a polished coin—
    What do they taste like? I ask.
    Twisting in my lap, she leans back sleepily.
    They taste like eyes, she says.

Annunciation in Play
    —into the 3 rd second, the girl
    holds on, determined not to meet his gaze—
    she swerves her blue sleeve,
    closes down the space,
    while his eyes are intent, unwilling
    to relent and
    late into the 5 th second they are still
    fighting on, their feet sinking into
    the slippery grass—
    Approaching the 6 th second
    he can’t repeat the sweeping in
    and each time he tries to clear
    the way to her thorn-brown eyes by the gesture of a hand
    it is easily blocked by the turn
    of her cheek.
    By the 8 th second she is still repelling
    every attempt, still deflecting (you can see
    the speed, the skillful knee action)
    his gaze. And she must know (she has to think
    every second, there’s no letting up)
    this is only
    delay, but the delay
    is what she has
    before his expert touch
    swings in, before
    she loses her light, clean edges, before she
    loses possession—
    before they look at each other.

Too Many Pigeons to Count and One Dove
    Bellagio, Italy
—3:21  
The startled ash tree
alive with them, wings lacing
through silver-green leaves—jumping
—3:24  
from branch to branch
they rattle the leaves, or make the green leaves
sound dry—
—3:26  
The surprise of a boat horn from below.
Increasingly voluptuous
fluttering.
—3:28  
One just there on the low branch—
gone before I can breathe or
describe it.
—3:29  
Nothing stays long enough to know.
How long since we’ve been inside
anything together the way
—3:29  
these birds are inside
this tree together, shifting, making it into
a shivering thing?
—3:30  
A churchbell rings once.
One pigeon flies
over the top of the tree without skimming
—3:30  
the high leaves, another
flies to the tree below. I cannot find
a picture of you in my mind
—3:30  
to land on. In the overlapping of soft dark
leaves, wings look
to be tangled, but
—3:32  
I see when they pull apart, one bird far, one
near, they did not touch. One bird seems caught,
flapping violently, one
—3:32  
becomes still and tilts down—
I cannot find the dove,
have not seen it for minutes. One pigeon nips
—3:32  
at something on a high branch,
moves lower (it has taken