Did it hurt?

Nothing feels in our world:
Not the sparrow we gassed in the kitchen
that April when it frosted late. It wouldn't live.
I knew that, you convinced me anyway and
who wouldn't trust your strong voice, your large
hands, as you say, "It won't feel anything."
And what of that bird that we buried in Spring?
Who gets to claim its death--
the one who turned the oven on
or the one who left the room? .
Our lives are exercises in silence:
only perpetual pulsing knees make noise
up and down like a piston engine under the chairs.
What now? Who gets the surgeon sucked entrails
the ghost of could be, black as bile
silent as tongueless dogs.
Are they fed to those starving for anything?
Are they taxidermied, held in a museum
fiji mermaids:a nickel, an eyeful?
Are they captive in jars, swimming in
beautiful shades of amber, fostered
until, fully grown, they pull themselves out,
walk down the streets where we live
meet the eyes of who gave all they could:
Do I know you from somewhere?
When I put my hand on the stove
The skin bubbled in target formation.
It didn't hurt. No. Not that much.

Sexual. It's not

So, rewriting the poems backwards seems like some sort of half-brained scheme you'd come with on an acid trip, but I'll have to agree with Loren: it does create this sense of excitement and ultimately is a great trick to reorder your thinking. Who thinks backwards? And in this case, it does create a new urgency and somehow still retains almost the exact same meaning.


wanderings:
these mind stoppings.
there's no sister, sister,
they say sobbing
hot, mouth, stalking

talk to,
easy to?
youre so
youre so.
seems that,
that it,
it's just.
they say:sexual.
It's not.