Kika Dorsey
The Calculus of Heaven
The calculus of heaven
is y approaching infinity,
and when you graph it
it rises in a line,
fails to be the wheel that spins,
the mother in its center
dancing with red scarves,
Anubis with green paws spinning lights
as I fill my tires with the elixir
of every window of my soul melted,
droplets of prismatic mother-loss,
of curved nests,
of quiet love.
is y approaching infinity,
and when you graph it
it rises in a line,
fails to be the wheel that spins,
the mother in its center
dancing with red scarves,
Anubis with green paws spinning lights
as I fill my tires with the elixir
of every window of my soul melted,
droplets of prismatic mother-loss,
of curved nests,
of quiet love.
I drive across the desert in Utah,
burn through sandstone,
Ghost Rock as yellow as clover honey,
Las Vegas beckoning an equation
where you can gamble x into infinity
or into the sole of the woman’s foot
with ankle bracelets made out of coral
from an ocean faraway.
burn through sandstone,
Ghost Rock as yellow as clover honey,
Las Vegas beckoning an equation
where you can gamble x into infinity
or into the sole of the woman’s foot
with ankle bracelets made out of coral
from an ocean faraway.
She clicks her heels.
She stretches her arms to Venus.
She is razor-sharp and trimming your bones.
She is always at home with circles.
Y never could make one
because verticality became the game.
It was never one I won.
She stretches her arms to Venus.
She is razor-sharp and trimming your bones.
She is always at home with circles.
Y never could make one
because verticality became the game.
It was never one I won.
I once knew a king
ensconced in a throne of rattlesnakes.
Their castanets
clattered and clanked and the queen
with a green scarab draped on her clavicle
danced across the backs of ghosts turned stone,
of deserts too privy of our secrets,
too sharp not to hear our whispers,
too hungry for the venom of our grief.
ensconced in a throne of rattlesnakes.
Their castanets
clattered and clanked and the queen
with a green scarab draped on her clavicle
danced across the backs of ghosts turned stone,
of deserts too privy of our secrets,
too sharp not to hear our whispers,
too hungry for the venom of our grief.
I once knew a king
with knobby fingers,
teeth of gold,
and sage growing out of his navel.
He believed in triangles,
not circumferences.
He was my father
when all the others left me
with knobby fingers,
teeth of gold,
and sage growing out of his navel.
He believed in triangles,
not circumferences.
He was my father
when all the others left me
and I drove across the desert
with a blue blanket embroidered
with all my initials,
a daughter I had yet to release,
three quartz stones,
each one more transparent than the last,
drove with the taste of Aces,
with the Queen of Hearts
tucked into my God,
and the canyons shed stone,
the scarabs were always climbing,
the music laid eggs,
stridulated above her nest,
and the wide sky resumed its dance
even though I knew
it never had ended,
even though I knew
the rattle of rain
in its whispers.
with a blue blanket embroidered
with all my initials,
a daughter I had yet to release,
three quartz stones,
each one more transparent than the last,
drove with the taste of Aces,
with the Queen of Hearts
tucked into my God,
and the canyons shed stone,
the scarabs were always climbing,
the music laid eggs,
stridulated above her nest,
and the wide sky resumed its dance
even though I knew
it never had ended,
even though I knew
the rattle of rain
in its whispers.
The Ants
They are crawling out of the floor cracks.
They are picking up crumbs
and carrying them on their backs.
The drones and queens are fucking underground.
They are superorganisms,
armies that march and march
like autumn clouds in wind,
like skipping stones.
They are picking up crumbs
and carrying them on their backs.
The drones and queens are fucking underground.
They are superorganisms,
armies that march and march
like autumn clouds in wind,
like skipping stones.
The Hopis say the Ant People saved me
by sheltering me underground
during the First World’s destruction.
All I know is where the mesas are the color of rust
I drive and visit adobe pueblos
and they give me a Kachina doll,
wooden with a painted green robe,
and tell me I’ll have a baby.
I believe them.
I set it on a shrine in the studio.
Sprinkle rose petals around it.
by sheltering me underground
during the First World’s destruction.
All I know is where the mesas are the color of rust
I drive and visit adobe pueblos
and they give me a Kachina doll,
wooden with a painted green robe,
and tell me I’ll have a baby.
I believe them.
I set it on a shrine in the studio.
Sprinkle rose petals around it.
I don’t know how so many ants got here.
They battle the steep walls,
conquer all verticality.
Somewhere people are falling,
ladders are broken,
a girl sprains her ankle trying to scale
a mesa so smooth you could chisel it
into the edge of a knife.
They battle the steep walls,
conquer all verticality.
Somewhere people are falling,
ladders are broken,
a girl sprains her ankle trying to scale
a mesa so smooth you could chisel it
into the edge of a knife.
But the ants, they can climb inside walls.
Your home is a conquered empire.
Everyone is careening underground.
It never rains.
Your home is a conquered empire.
Everyone is careening underground.
It never rains.
In the night and north of the desert
you crawl into the cracks
and find the Second World.
In it you will have many children.
They will multiply and feed
off of every crumb of you.
you crawl into the cracks
and find the Second World.
In it you will have many children.
They will multiply and feed
off of every crumb of you.
Nocturne
So little sleep when lions sit
at the edge of my bed,
their warm bodies heating
my legs, blankets folded
away from me,
shipwrecked dreams in the sea rolling
blue waves into phosphenes,
a train whistling, tracks' crossties
leading into cities
where lights never turn off
and janitors mop travertine tiles,
scrub sinks with bleach.
at the edge of my bed,
their warm bodies heating
my legs, blankets folded
away from me,
shipwrecked dreams in the sea rolling
blue waves into phosphenes,
a train whistling, tracks' crossties
leading into cities
where lights never turn off
and janitors mop travertine tiles,
scrub sinks with bleach.
I always saw gods as lions—
Poseidon lifting tridents made of teeth,
Zeus coughing thunderous roars,
Maahes carrying all that sun in his spine
while I wrap my midnight womb
in a ray of light
no birth can maintain
and the horses were too busy
pulling the plow
to lead my chariot,
its wheels too golden
for beasts of burden.
Poseidon lifting tridents made of teeth,
Zeus coughing thunderous roars,
Maahes carrying all that sun in his spine
while I wrap my midnight womb
in a ray of light
no birth can maintain
and the horses were too busy
pulling the plow
to lead my chariot,
its wheels too golden
for beasts of burden.
There is a fine line
between what I can bear
and what I merely survive.
between what I can bear
and what I merely survive.
Mostly I mutter
prayers in the dark
written on parchment eyelids,
mop and scrub and sweep
their calligraphy in my dreams,
and sometimes it gets so cold
and I sidle up to the warm body,
comb its mane with my fingers,
sink with folded sails,
cut the wires braided behind walls
so the stars can shine.
prayers in the dark
written on parchment eyelids,
mop and scrub and sweep
their calligraphy in my dreams,
and sometimes it gets so cold
and I sidle up to the warm body,
comb its mane with my fingers,
sink with folded sails,
cut the wires braided behind walls
so the stars can shine.
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