Calabash

[mikejewett]

Calabash

It breathes midnight -
the shape of her hips
is the body of a sitar;
notes that thrust,
notes that drone,
that wash away breath.

The shape of her hips
a hand grenade
washing her explosive
mouth, the mouth
of the Winnisimmet
flowing, chasing rabbits

Through muck and salt
and salty clams.
Fevers walk the edges
tiptoeing to a house
painted by thought.
The house takes off

Her hat, erases her
red soil, beckoning.
Beckoning.
Melted wax of the sun
if the sun was Icarus
or two ovaries.

A calabash pipe sits
in a room all alone.
Mother-of-pearl inlay
adorns its stem;
stem adorns her lips;
she pulls hard

at smoke,
rich and creamy.
Her lungs are smiles.
A C-string resonates
inside her gourds;
her white flowers;

Her white smoke;
her white blood cells.
She switched
her babies over to
compassionate care
that evening, holding

Them when they went
peacefully back to
the source of everything.
Her hips a calabash.
Her hips a hand grenade;
washing utensils -

Calabash cups, bowls,
and basins, ital lifestyle;
let the moons eat
this salt, Carribbea,
stars in the sea.
We wither,

We ashes,
we new fishes;
even your touch
is alive, your tongue
a conduit, insulator,
conductor.

It spills midnight
through the sky's
panes of glass.
Trace mandarin
oranges with it -
a surfeit.

Calabashes
Calaveras
Caligulas -
use for cleaning rice,
carrying water,
bowls for palm wine

And yerba tea
and pennyroyal
steeping
in mason jars
steeping
with mason bees.

[tonyv]

Mike, this is impressive. The poem doesn't lend itself to analysis; the art speaks for itself. I've read it once now, and I'm on sensory overload, but I'll enjoy this world class poem again and again. Thank you for showcasing it here.

Tony