Front in Galveston
The hothouse hurricane is a comedy
of Lordships galloping toward the
eye of the sun shouting for regimental
reform – a deformity of their spear points,
the rangers of Texas – ghouls on a catwalk
winking at you, while you and your lover
spur each other on inside the stoic never-abiding-
though-always-ending nightshade where you
have convinced yourself that father will never
see you.

The front side of the garrison charged in
Galveston where the desert smells like
skin and the milk inside your belly burrows
deep inside like a child un-born, conceived
in forethought, if not duty,

I bear your child
willingly,

watch you die as though war
were antebellum, something unthought-of,
clean and not dirty, the birthing chair scared
from all other nails that have clutched it while
further sons were born to sniff the war
in Galveston, to follow the tantrums of tornadoes
in search of their fathers,

and women will wait,
whole without a since of need.