Luke Buckham

Feeding Each Other

we found the lowest floor of the forest
pressed against the wet black leaves
and fed each other mushrooms
snapping them off the rug of moss
--remembering indoors pineneedles concrete
kitchen linoleum underneath--
pushing them into each other's mouths
until our bellies bulged

and then made love, our mouths still filled
with broken mushrooms


Song of Two Survivors

Nobody is being called home:
what a relief. All are being pulled
gently toward the flaming fringe.
Square-dancing has rescued all of them
way from their shivering businesses.
Shit honey into my mouth
hear the sirens moaning elsewhere.

The helicopters have fallen
their propellers slowly drifting
to a halt, circling hopeless domes,
never to be used again. No eye
looks out of the shattered eye
toward the canyon's crack of light.
Pull up your skirts, squat over me,
and shit that honey into my mouth.

Pull the blankets made of rock
over our temple of caves
(lightlessness beneath the earth
has a deep diamond light)
and shit pure golden honey
gleaming into my mouth.


Jubilate in June

Let the silver buckets be filled with raspberries
to overflowing, and the rooster gorge himself on their juice.
For a child's hands picked them, and she is happy to share
with a chicken.

And let his feathers be filled with fresh crimson.
For he needs no taste of blood in his beak to be painted red.

Let the backyard be painted blue with the dust of smashed pebbles.
For the driveway has been removed to the sky.

Let the children play on the roof, where tiny meteorites can fall
occasionally into their mouths and be swallowed like vitamins.
For the house is sinking into the earth and a dark green swamp
fills the parlor, muffling the television.

Let the parking garages be filled with the sound of light,
rather than the vision of light. For the souls which inhabit
automobiles will be more comfortable in the dark.

Let the abilities of the ghost crab be given to the elderly.
For all nursing homes will be filled with the sound of daintily
skittering feet.

Let the sensitive unseeing eyes of the bat be pressed
like ointment into the hands of a beggar who pretends
to be blind. For he will spend his days jumping onto the shoulders
of others, crying that the ground has burnt him.

Let the rawness of his hands flow into the bodies that have grown
numb during endless subway travel. For their bodies shall press
together like blind, damp eyes into a seeing hand.

Let them treat the presence of one another as a photographer
treats a moth in twilight. For they have been pressed together
like meat for too long, and a new sensitivity to light
shall overtake them.

Let the bittersweetness of the pomegranate suddenly manifest
itself in the mouths of alcoholics. For their bellies shall become

Let a rain of steaming artichokes pummel the desks
in the House of Representatives. For they shall peel
the rhetoric of freedom down to its furry heart.

Let leaning cliffs be deposited on the front doorsteps
of the poorest apartments. For those within shall climb
past the highest of cities on their way to the liquor store.

Let this poem continue forever invisibly. For the laser
that writes it on wallpaper is running low on batteries.



Are what you saw angels
how you understand
their handprints in a wall
the beginning of an ocean wave

under the docks where a horseshoe crab's
old body of a home
floats upward, disemboweled in the streaks
of floating light

I see my face in the shell of its skeleton
I know my future is footprints in
cobalt sand we've never imagined

dirty light, dirty light, being vacuumed clean
by other light, other light, dark matter hides
behind a tree they call the solar system:

a tiny tiny bear crawls between
the shocks of moss all soft like a toddler's hair