Beautiful Things (For Jalaine)

Rosemary Daniell

are often dangerous: the silver plane
(single-engine, bullet hole in fuselage)
all that holds us up over the jungle --
cloud beneath    a mattress    a featherbed
the orange & black tiger padding below
the coral & lemon snakes dripping    face-
level    alligators gliding the swamps
(eyes like small yellow headlights): a child's
bedtime toys    primary colors. And
handling the rattlers is shiver    is tickle
is jump rope to Washed in the Blood. And what
of the charcoal sky just before hurricane
the snow that collapses to avalanche? And
oh! those tender peaks of the Tetons
crevices drawing our fingers like mittens --
walking into white-out: to freeze    it's said
is fugue state    is bliss    is the perfect death ....
And needles full of morphine & morphine
dreams    & sex with beautiful strangers
& standing on drug streets   at 3 a.m....
All this comes after the loves like injections
of Drano    after we    weary novitiates

have been brought to our knees. For this is
the happiness of the insane    of we who
have left behind clocks    lawns    meals at six:
it is as though the brain has been razed
our words rip forth    scalpels dripping red.
And now we come to that edge    that first
slice at the wrist    (exquisite    glacieral)
that razor that will delight or kill: yes
dangerous things are often beautiful
blinding us to the fangs    the needles
the peaks    that will throw us off-center
to the dogs    but still    we keep testing
that edge    until we are nothing but pain
even the dope can't fix    until we are
bloodied    in ribbons    scattered    until
we are at last restitched & remade --
rearranged so that we turn from it.
Yet always it is that edge that we grieve. . . .