Three Poems by Diana Marie Delgado
The last man allotted to me was devoured. What I mean is his clothes were destroyed.
Not by me, of course, but by outlaws. The ordeal proved beyond repair. The intruders had
forked tongues and the eyes on their wings looked like the wet mouths of cigarette burns.
Once, searching for an umbrella, I startled them, and they waved their mouthparts at me like pistols.
Outside, the curious stand in the rain without jackets. The closetís still occupied, by what,
[Originally Published in Lumina]
Lacan is right, psychologists fatten the sensational value of your tattoos.
Lacan is now on the air. His subject: the body.
Lacan is vague about the nature of art and how to undo the phallus.
This is how he gains power.
Lacan say there is sex; even if things enter humans, bad
And without scorch.
And is not clear about longshots and fat black markers.
Lacan recommends a husband this time of year.
Onscreen, Lacan bleeds and bleeds.
He is young the entire dream.
This is why we love him.
Where do you hide to feed?
Lacan largely held us underwater.
But was not clear on whether our goal was glass or fathers.
[Originally published in Ninth Letter, Summer 07]
The Sea is Farther Than Thought
In church, the boys have so much
light, plants grow towards them.
My aunt handed me and organdy fan
and said, Hold this if youíre frightened
or want to lose yourself—the devil
can dance like a goddamned dream.
There are three things on earth
to point to: the sun, the moon, and
the television. My brother walked
into a garage with a needle taped
to a battery, and emerged with his
entire stomach tattooed. I donít
think Iíll touch a face like that again.
Across the street, wetbacks sleep
five to a room and sweep and water
dirt, while children send canoes
down the Hudson without oars.
Let me explain westward expansion:
Snow unfolded over a wagon train
of nine, and nothing without wings
survived. He answered the door
holding a rag to his neck and we kissed
on the service porch near a pitbull
thatíd just won a fight. Sometimes
my father whittles for my mother
in front of a bonfire, the vein searching
his thigh, Corinthian blue. To be honest,
I called because there was snow
in my glove, not because I missed you.
As a girl, I kept suede horses
and a hairbrush inside a blonde toy-box.
If the original tunnel of the body
is the mouth, Iíve never had one. One day
my face will appear and refuse to turn away.
Some people like poison. I kneeled
every time I opened it.
[Originally published in The Indiana Review]