MARINA GIPPS Poems

Do you understand that moat of whiteness?
Where we said our I do’s lifted in a cloud of never.
Where blanched sheets covered our desires
of desktop plumes and smoked cigarettes.
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In the land where all
lucrative spheres crash
I was left with a sea-salt trace.
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You know those with the big long fingers,
the ones when they point at you,
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Born into an odd name I never wanted
for it would not cheerlead me
into stardom according to numerologists
and Chicago Bears fans
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I had a dream that Yeltsin was about to kick my head in.
The same way he had broken a tennis racket- angry at his losing.
I am not sure why I dreamt this.
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What happened that night when stars went out
and the sky prolapsed its heavy conspiring death upon us?
Aurora Borealis of a mythical situation,
How beings get so close so as to explore
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I am where Christ is: dead at 33
And sleeping on the left side of the bed.
Christ was a leftie, don’t let them tell you otherwise.
He pitched to saints and caught left-handed
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Nocturnal sun,
Orb of albumen glowing.

Unanswerable questions
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Must be a good woman
Who darns his holed socks
Irons his heavily starched trousers
Makes his bed more comely
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Have foresworn
the world,
in love with
being
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