To Two or Three Members of the Audience
You put the moon&stars
in the sea down there.
See, I flung the broken star parts
into the bathwater and out
of the window where they made
a “noise.” Like singing
from a stranger. Like a further
emergency. Put you down
(like the icy moon) or hold you?
When the world is a cart of noising birds,
hold you. I cannot or I forget to hold you
when I am most wet and slippery,
when I’ve come in from the woods
and away from my nature, o my naturalist,
my hunter-prodigy, in my fairy costume
and its ribbed silver wing set and
am strung up and out and all gossam--
but I do not forget the north
of your naked, nor the froth
of your ambition. I wear that
compass like tattoo.
To grow is what I like
about you: how it looks.
How you draw the icon
from its tooled&pearled holster.
Hot as a star. Hooked as a bird.
The perfumed shoulder-hump
of the moon, and the whole tingling cacophony.
I am here and so wholesome, my costume
set with the chipped bits of ice
known as “eyes.”
Arielle Greenberg is the author of My Kafka Century and Given, co-author with Rachel Zucker of Home/Birth: A Poemic, and co-editor of several anthologies, including Gurlesque. Currently she is working on a series of explicit “experimental/pastoral sex poems.” She lives in Maine, teaches out of her home and through the University of Tampa’s low-residency MFA program.