seven

i suppose i should
be grateful for plums
and oranges and
january dates

for a brown breach of dried pampas
slicing white landscape

for a flustered jay
and the long, cool shadow of a cooper's hawk

and for the
number
seven

which through winter, has
trilled insistent

begging to be written

naked me; all breasts
and eyes, seven
a steamy mirror

head tilted, i

finger dripped lines
and seven spreads

like the spindly legs of an avocado pit- pegged over a water tumbler

or cancerous fingers rooting the lengths of my own soft tissue

i sit with pen
and scribble
seven- flipped
sideways still it offers nothing

answers no prayer
gives no concession

i wonder if i am meant to write the

seven times seven hundred times- i walked
through snow inside your footprints

they were larger
than my own

you held my hand


or it could be that i am to write seven shoes
tossed in a back closet- an odd one alone, disconnected- tongue flapping
like a mother’s final breath

or maybe i am to write seven sisters
clustered in the heavens- huddled erogenous;
little explosions - seven small gasps

or even the seven reasons
to ignore reason- i wonder about
a lapse of judgment
a growling dog; chained to chain link fence

seven nights
without food

seven days
of no shelter

i doodle another seven and study implications; lucky i think as i trace a singular line without lifting my pencil

lucky i tell myself as i digest the timing

it all seems so deliberate
the dog, the grass, the date, the spindley fingers reaching

perhaps after january blows her final gust i will discover

seven maps leading to
seven routes

all of which
a brother may have chosen instead










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