your real mother

your real mother
crawls through spirals of ink
can’t you see her white teeth rising
sprouting above the absurd illusion
she sucks from the world
each spinning moment
she does as water does
she places her fingers on the reading page
five shadows slip through
the dead white sun dots the afternoon
crawls over people’s heads
the imaginary snow is a kind of solstice
while somewhere else
in this same black universe
your only brother—the six fingered—arrives
says—
no one remembers
their mother’s pain
then he departs
and you place a green stone
with his name on it over his head
somewhere there’s an ocean you must cross
but you don’t know what to call it
and you don’t want to go

oracle

to envision Lorca’s real pain
consult Lorca
visit him in his black dream
his golden summer of death
laden with sensuous honey
the monstrous columbarium
echoing with siguiriyas