Factory

My father was a factory

that made smoke razors newspapers

coffee women two children his father

made coal trucks shovels power hoses

he didn’t forgive anything he made that too

I made a daughter her fear

of closets her fear of the moon

her scars her mother

stuffs potatoes beer sauce charred meat

into me TVs pills washcloths

cigarettes I make bad dreams

headaches sweat I pour lightning

into my kisses they hurt everything

they tell me I

use stabwords

to cut around their silence

that I made their silence

is for me.

Silver

            For Nico

I brought my dead horse

into the field

to graze

between the fat poppies

and burrs.

Bumblebees flew

their propeller planes

right through

his ribs, and his teeth

smashed together

without touching

the dried grasses

when he bent down

to eat.  His eyes tossed

back and forth

like snowballs

watching the sweet gum

sway, the swallows

bicker apart

in the low rows

of soy—the whole gone

world growing away.

At night the stars

fell down

and burned him

and scared him

into the trees,

where I guess

he’s still running,

either toward me

or away from me.