Theresa Whitehill
"Todos Santos"
In the mystery of a little shop
off a hidden courtyard
centuries old, suckuous caramels
are arranged on an antique tray
Enfolded by painstakingly stitched lace
depicting skeletons riding
gas-powered lawnmowers
as if tea time were every moment
of arriving by plan and mystery
brought to the point of melting sugar
were the perfect facsimile of heartache.
An enthrallment of heart
as a petal of time—delicate,
unrestrained, topped with a sprinkling
of pink salt and packed in bolts
of electric foil, ribbons of edible icicles
that double as a row of teeth, next to
a cabinet of edible and fluorescent
yonis and prayers for healing.
And as for the ministry of chocolate
what skull or joint of finger
or perfectly plump penis elaborated
with crystallized lavender could enter
the dark hollow of our throats
with such scholarship, such whimsy
of rose water and chili, what rune
coated in pure oil of cinnamon and cacao
blossom could possibly divine how far
and how fast we are now and always
being flung at any moment
through deepest space.
Where
Shoot an arrow into the
Secret heart of the monster
The story said. But the banks,
Skyscrapers, offices, had no secrets
Just more places that wouldn’t die
No use shooting here
Seek the Secret Heart
The core, the center of the monster’s power
—not where we thought. It’s elsewhere,
Hidden in a harmless-looking spot
If you’ve wiped somebody’s nose,
Untied a knot, searched for a lost key
Maybe a little bird
Or mouse will point
And whisper in your ear
Shoot here
Watching the Vulture at the Road Kill
You know Death by his leisure—take
The time we saw the vulture make
His slow, hot-air-balloon descent
To a possum smashed beside the pavement.
We stopped the car to watch. Too close.
He bounced his moon-walk and rose
With a shrug up to the kudzu sleeve
Of a pine, to wait for us to leave.
What else can afford to linger?
The eagle has his trigger-finger;
Quails and doves their shell-shocked nerves—
There is no peace but scavengers.