DAN ROSENBERG
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Dirty History

Midnight never ended when the sun rested
unlit above her narrow cheek.
She was floating when decay began
to spread her piece by piece.
Her thirsty nets of hair caught up
the soft teeth of sound and squeezed
the water from them, dropped them
to her hands. She threw her hands
into a growing weave, her ears
against the matted nothing, her eyes
to the distance from herself.
She threw her blood and bones
to the closeness; unhooked
her skin fell like a reprimand and scattered.
Everywhere there was a mess of life.
Her hungry hands gave birth to trees,
snaking into each other, starving as
a gross possessive lover, crushing
one above the other. Her ears fell
to the reptiles, to the sound of thrashing,
bodies mashed against the guardrail,
chewing her dust to new black earth,
while her two eyes paced back
and forth above it all. There was churning,
there was a spray of her like dandruff,
then what were her many parts
fell into life, began their slow settling.

New Idioms

When the night is fully formed
but your pulse has the cadence of anticipation.
Loving and hating something simultaneously.
Like cracking a pomegranate open
to find nothing but mist and hunger.
The pleasure of never having enough.
Homecoming to a place you’ve never been,
then remembering your daughter,
always afraid of new illnesses.
When you catch a spider in your fist,
take it out of your house and release it,
knowing your hand will feel dirty forever.
When you catch a spider in your fist
and hear the sound of laughter down the hall.
Brain sadness trumped by some
strange bird calling for his lover.
When your family surrounds you,
how grateful to be embarrassed by them. 
How walking next to strangers in the rain
lets you make love with your eyes.
The way Matryoshka dolls replace
psychology when the lights go out,
and how you can never find the smallest doll.
Sleeping behind a wall with no ears.
The secret lust for rainfall. 
When you’re left without a seam,
tiny, with no more empty spaces.
Your heavy club foot scatters your tracks.
The varied populations of the cusps.
Like being born a dry orphan but finding
a tongue to call your own.
Speaking as if poorly of the dead.