{revision at 5:47 p.m.}

Cassandra & Janis calling

isn’t every uterus a prophet though

and every screamer a target / the hair
a handle for fists, the throat exposed

(we) wall-climbers, loose on the ramparts calling
the body, the body, the body (Hector,
Jimi
)
and the last song, buried alive
these blues

a native prison, the body

let the nails grow, rasp the throat
(Janis) (Cassandra) / let abrasions call down
the curse, refuse the kiss or the ordinary

gorgeous

give the madness bones, call it god
or conspiracy / Agamemnon / Jerry
lay it down for any gone cause, any body

any prophet not us

2: as Cassandra tells it

Apollo’s breath so close to dead, his hands
soft as old olives / what isn’t told, I made
no promises, only wanted the mouth
of a god on me one time but his skin
/ less man than fish. what no one tells you:
immortal is cold, old is old

I was a prophet already. the curse
was on Troy, not me.

3: Janis over coffee

I thought no one was listening
to the words. when the men
came knocking, offering a last fix, my arms
had already started healing, I didn’t need
anything, told them so

but in they came, held me down, one shot,
too hot, I knew right away by their shoes
I was dead

4:

why Sylvia and the gas
why Emma and the arsenic
why Anne and the monoxide
why Margot and the phenobarbitol
why Dorothy and the imipramine
why Ophelia in the river
why Virginia in the river
why Diane’s wrists
why the Sirens and the leap
why Marilyn in the bed
why Sara in the bath

(the throat is the first to rot)

5:

what good is knowing when all lights
say go, when the set is closed and the sword falls

is it true the serpents licked your ears

the father or a god, Port Arthur or Troy, women
with sodium pentothal for blood die for it

unheard

6:

the radiator too is a shushing
/ call it madness. the new method:
distraction. who’s got time
for prophesy when there’s Sex
& the City who can hear us
above the laugh tracks

the hysteria

Helen, unhinge the rope
Melissa, recap the pills
Adalia, let the razors dull
Phoebe, unmap the bridge
Christina, back from the sill
(every uterus a prophet though)
Ruby, away from the alley
Darlene, away from the ocean
Robin, away from the syringe
(every screamer a target)
Harriet, the moonrise
Violet, your sister
Nadine, next Sunday’s brunch with mimosas
Brenda, the blush of the paintbrush
(alive, these blues)
alive, these blues

native prison, this body
(no prophet but us)
throat a door swinging wildly / open.