width=61 height=87> Voracious Verses


Sean Ross
In Place

Need I say 
the ocean pulls away 
you turn  unexpectedly

as my feet eavesdrop 
on the panicked guttural 
whispers of a dark and moistened 
army of sand 
holding the line 
holding me in place 
so that I do not sink 
into an earth I dream 
will become omnivorous 

I dream of digestion 
a parallel swallow 
dances with us  

arm raised I watch 
you sinking
arm raised 
you watch me watching
instead of other verbs  
not swimming    
not drowning 

© 2006 Sean Ross

I Kissed the First Girl I Really Loved

On the body battlefield of predestination, 
between private thoughts, between corners and brief moments 
of beautiful light, he is a child again; he is 
the womb and in the womb – every exhalation the 
moment before division (even now he clings to
himself and whispers mother, mother). The advancing 
code is marching. Inside him are his orders; inside 
him is the compulsion we cover with kisses and 
call I, Predicate, though all verbs are desire; run, 
and you are running to, drink, and you are taking, fall, 
and you are climbing back, be, and you are buried in 
mud that does not question itself as the love water 
holds for earth. Be, he repeats with each coronary 
contraction, Cor-a-Zòn, Cor-a-Zòn, Cor-a-Zòn. 
Up and over. Past the explosions bowing waist deep, 
past the soldiers marching between parenthesis, arms 
forward and back in a biological no-zone, 
(you cannot hurt what exists only in its own space), 
and through, finally, through to the egg cradled branches,  
to her hands he knows grew together, cupped for water,
cupped for his falling mouth; I, drinking, I, becoming, 
I, am.

© 2006 Sean Ross

Isaac at Group

My father had a comprehensive glass collection. He 
liked to display it from the top of the table with a long
lace cloth hanging to the ground. At the bottom he painted 
a sun and dragon in grape juice. It was where I learned to read. 

My mother collected nail files of the world. She would buy one 
in each country we visited, hanging them from pre-written placards
over crudely drawn flags.  Mexico. The United States. 
That one doesn’t count, I told her. 
You’re right, she said, and let me play with it. 

Every week my parents held “introventions”, 
pressing their hands to my still developing head 
and chanting, Fetish, Fetish. I brought home frogs, 
apostrophes, shoelaces and receipts I stole from old men in lines, 
real rabbits feet, used condoms, warm blankets, 
a girl with a facial tick named June,,,,,,,,
I made Manhattan out of Macaroni. 

Took India ink and wrote 
A swarm of butterflies laughed all over her body 
on the basin for holy water at St. Greg’s. I stood 
behind their solid graves and shouted Me! 
but they never turned to tell me my name. 

© 2006 Sean Ross