Madronna Holden

If the world were a literal thing

I
When all is said and done
these are the facts:
celibate facts that never
have sex so as not
to confuse your skin
and mine.

Facts that claim every continent
of thought on behalf of themselves:
navigate one-way streets at well
under the lawful speed limit.

Facts that never dance
the scandalous fractal rag.

Black Elk said,
It doesn’t matter whether
it happened; it matters
if it’s true.

Put on your sensible shoes:
of course it matters if
it really happened.

Facts will tell you
if you are really feeling
what you are feeling.

II

If the world were a literal thing
my memory could not
describe you in oranges
and satin.

There would be no translation
between the language
of my eyes and yours.

Our skin would be a guardhouse
without a gate, never lighting
anything between us.

Our feet would stop obediently
at every border and no one
could ride our horse of words
out of its stall of commandments.

There would be no sly music
drifting seductively off key,
no voice with its ardent
imprecise hope.

The rain would be forbidden
from falling like smoke
against the far horizon.

I would live on my island
and you yours, the captured
moon making no overtures
to a tide between us.

There would be nothing to quench
our thirst but the lonely cider of certainty
made from apples that can be
neither eaten nor planted.

There would be
nothing to tempt us—
and nothing
to teach us.

As Picasso turned the world to glass

He insisted the moment of creation
should be as private as sex--
since you can only make an
object of power by going
underground
with it.

He used haunting as an
exact science, placing
ghost-sheets over what
was missing, what
was fractured
or beheaded--

setting every piece in precise
slant so as to make the
eyes ache with second
sight, the palms itch
with the urge
to rebuild.