Whole

Whole

Andrea Dreiling

He lives in a half-dead body after all.  
Shins as white as the bones underneath them.  

Derrick rolls forward.  
His shins as white as the bones underneath them.  

His shoulders
are not white or thin,  they are broad.  
He lives in a half-dead body after all.  

His tailbone hits the porcelain when he takes a bath.  
Underneath the water
where the sound is always louder.  
He holds his head underwater to hear the tap, tap, tap; 
his tailbone hitting the bottom of the bath.  

He is a sound engineer after all.  

We live in a house together, 
a house that is long from front to back.  
We are happy and angry here, 
sleeping and making here. 
We recycle the beer bottles and all of the cans.  
We recycle all of the things that have been said 

so that it is his idea, my idea, 
his idea, mine.  
We play guitar separately and sometimes together.  
We go out and come back, say hi to the neighbor.  

He is not a half-dead man after all.  

His feet go riding on the foot-board of his wheelchair, 
held up at a constant angle.  
Held in pristine shoes.  
And our single-pane windows
fog up in the winter- his nails turn blue.  

As blue as the blood
that flows right underneath them.  

And his legs stay still
except for the blood that flows right through them.  
His heart makes the beat  
and his hands make music. 

My heart makes monotony, 
it sends the color to all of my bruises.  

Bruises and nails as blue as blood, 
blue as the blood that flows right underneath them.  

In the mornings breakfast is mangled by the slow stones of our tongues,
our teeth all right in a row.  
The slow break down of food, 
slow pace of slow, 
slow sun seeping through the uncovered window.  

The Fed ex man knocks but we will not open the door.  
He would try too hard to hold it open for Derrick, 
who is not a half dead man, ya know.  

Mama Used to Cut My Hair

Mama Used to Cut My Hair

Dear Colorado River

Dear Colorado River