OR ALL THINGS AND NOTHING RELATE
It is a maleness spring to come
Make a little riper trough
Slits in panties shielded
Whose grime, it did not place
Within the arbitration
The law could not withstand his
Peculiar uniformity to such male
Coward, leaking the licking
Diplomats between the arteries in
The throat and in the coven
Married and loose
He weighed too much sleep
He loved a strumpet or a slit
That could no longer be loved
Like that is the rumpled incarnation
Of what Jacob moaned beneath the swollen
Angel bed, the ladder went to and against
And he in pride and unknown
A somatic metaphor
And wrestled haut
Within his own anatomy
So law diffused some millennia
And that was shown most
Frequently by the brains and brains of
Jacob liberalized the fiction
Of good faith and went in search of Israel
And so was called Israel. Oh, Israel, who called myself
A dictator or a retard, that I hold in myself
All the secrets of the darkest human promise
And so am spoken for by them, and if Pharaoh had
Not come into his own will, how could Moses
Arbitrate like that?
Blood sword or barrel how Moses led
Them back to Canaan
Where Joseph had led them from, not for
And I on the B43 express to downtown
Brooklyn, am not a martyr or a victim
Or trying to do much of anything
Despite the law
In Palestine that you must
Carry your ID at all times
Without much maleness,
Spring had yet to surface the
Dividends of wanton prosperity
Insure domestic tranquility
Slits and gates for the having
And have nots do not bring
Me your pencils write your own
Story and I will write mine
Or loose my lunch, when he
Made love to my bush and claimed
It was all he ever knew of the dark and
Claimed it for his own
How come you’re so dark?
And how come the cervix comes unlocked
And how come all these sutras are so plain?
And how come we lost our innocence so young?
The overcast hybrid plaintiffs
Counting their wits and wisps of
Ego shattering attitude that beckons them
Forward into the Dorothea Lasky poem
And out of my cunt.
But that is just another way to say that things, people
Or all things and nothing relate
Overcast Brooklyn ceases to deny
Its integrity for the desire to form a
More perfect perfection
Withheld from all slurped and synched
Pariahs the plaintiffs demand that he
love her, but there is truly no
escape for them.
Inspecting the condoms for bruises
And I don’t know what to do.
It’s a man’s world and I don’t know what to do.
How did everything in the universe
Come to rip bones around my panties?
And he is somehow still alive on
Hancock Street, and I will have to
Have someone else’s babies.
And I don’t know who you are talking to
When you say you will love me forever.
And I don’t know what to do about us.
And I don’t know about the broken condoms.
And I don’t know how to take my third eye off you.
And I don’t know what to do.
CORNELIA BARBER lives, loves and works in Crown Heights, NY. Her essays, interviews, poetry and short stories have been published or are forthcoming from Prelude Magazine, Lemon Hound, Queen Mobs Tea House, The Poetry Project Newsletter and elsewhere.