I Cannot Count The Altering That Happens In The Very Large Rooms That Are The Guts Of Her

by Isabelle Doyle

published March 11, 2016

My wife with the sex of a mirror

like a fireball through the fog at a new kind of atmosphere. There are meteorites,

snippets of filth music, cars on collapsed veins,

the scent of her immense body. She and dawn fall together

and I am made more beautiful by losses

and nothing since matters.

A bullring of the silent and girl-circled island,

the moonlight, a bright stream.


There are trees and they are on fire.  There are hummingbirds and they are on fire. 

I make a whole life out of it,

lights on my shoulder

drifting up to the lip of matter

to life again. The roofs, astonished by my appearing,

awake, the hour of my birth arriving

between cock and calm, the place that scripts such jazz

stunning my tongue. At least the city pretends:


River beds. Fire between the mattresses of the bed I was born in. Fire in my

bed, fitted, naked, almost

I leap into kerosene

Moving is a white lie, a soft arrow


Electric pony light. There will never be more of me

to heel. I’m the path so cut and red.

These are my hands.

I may be skin and bone,

now, I am stirring like a seed in China. 


O wake me in my house in the mud

to the woman I am becoming. Leading, always, to my fear

are our bodies, simmering, clasped. Her hand

as in a farmer’s prayer for earth.


I walked, walking warm and vital breath, while stones watched, and wings rose,

then, one by one, I lifted her veils. In the long walk, waving my arms, 

my wife whose hair is a brush fire, 

my wife with the sex of an iris.