In the desert the branches peel past on their way falling to
mambo or samba with the oxygen. Mosquitoes make anyone sorry
needles and blades
to be caught in soft armor
too tender to concede.
The ancient Greeks used seven kinds of nudity
all speaking marble (I memorized none). Nudity has nearly given up on me.
The spider’s disc deadly and intricate the coma’s hope.
Every warm morning walks in on chainsaw legs
and the same pavement that shepherded us here has no intention of bringing us back—
bright fountain rest of the sky flame?
(Motion detectors wasting talent in a mirror.)
They know no better.
(For every person on this earth, fifteen hundred stars.)
bright fountain your heart odd rhythm
O bright fountain, fifteen hundred stars—
Becka Mara McKay directs the Creative Writing MFA at Florida Atlantic University, writes poetry, and translates Hebrew poetry and fiction. Publications include A Meteorologist in the Promised Land (Shearsman, 2010), Laundry (Autumn Hill, 2008), Blue Has No South (Clockroot, 2010), Lunar Savings Time (Clockroot, 2011), and Kaleidoscope (Mosaic Press, 2014).