In the milliseconds it takes
for the ceiling to rise away from me,
I am underwater, drowning
in this fall. But here, my flailings
have thrust my body through glass:
my flesh exudes a storm
of furious red that I must
press to silence. A twisted lullaby escapes–
Hush, you are too fragile
for my love.
Photo by G.S.
for G.S.
In your shadowy silhouette
rising out of a morning blooming with fog,
with eyes bright like condensed galaxies,
I recognize part of myself:
a being reaching out
to share the power of her dreams,
while her body begins to burn
the fuel of last night’s sleep.
There is nothing like holding the dropped feather
of a wild bird–a piece of atmosphere.
Even the down of the commonest sparrow
holds the secret of a life spent
in defiance of gravity. So, I gather
them up like gems fallen from a sky enspelled,
hoping that I will someday have enough
to wear as a rainbow of armor
and flout the constraints that pervade my life.
This paralyzing fierceness that uncoils
itself in my chest makes the passing blood
vibrate with its hissing.
I’ve made a point of salivating, then spitting
contradictions at you,
but it isn’t enough. And so, I tear at the flesh
of apple after apple, wearing the cores strung
together, looped ’round and ’round my neck.
I am the apple, I am the snake to your tyranny,
and I know more than enough to ruin you.
Every way I turn this
it seems to have soft, half-rotten
spots, and I am afraid to cut them
away to see how much viable flesh is left.
How do I make you grasp something
I continually comprehend less and less?
It has squiggled away
somewhere like a worm exposed,
and as I try to pull it out by its end
it only breaks apart in my fingers
still wriggling.
I seem to find you unable,
if not unwilling, to relearn who I am,
and I keep seeing how little we have
in common. But most of all,
you remind me of the years I spent letting her
turn the core of my will to pulp
until I did not recognize my own skin.
I can only blame you for doing the nothing
I cannot forgive.
I am more than a little infatuated with owls. I don’t know why this is exactly, but I have a tendency to develop amorous fascinations with specific bird families. This was made with a combination of water color and digital painting.
This has grown pervasive,
a little invasive. Every time
I try to extinguish it, pressing
it to nothing between my palms,
it escapes through the gaps
in my fingers–tiny, slick amphibians
with powerful hearts.
They don’t have teeth, not anymore,
because they all broke off in my skin–
little hypodermics I’m afraid
to pull out if they are all
I will have left of you.
I step around you lightly
hardly daring to breathe
for fear of disturbing
the dust cloaking your emotions.
But in increasing anxiety I find
this timidity oppressing,
allowing you to thrust me
inside the packaging
I thought I had thrown out.
I see now, I can’t be me
when I’m with you,
always I pretend to be that dull thing,
responsive only in parts.
Before, I was happy to have someone
willing to bear the absentness of my company.
But now that I am solidly me,
I must become a killdeer
crying out my own name
because you have forgotten
to see who I am.
You have set teeth
to my concept of you–of us.
So I have those sobby hiccups,
while you maintain
a glassy impassivity.
I tell you, “I can’t do it anymore;
I can’t keep forgiving you.”
I wish you had screamed,
it would have been better than that flatness.
*~*~*~*
An earlier draft of this was published in Chiasma in April 2008.
I see now it is only the net
below that will catch me.
I will fall, and you
cannot even hold my hand.
This is the first tightrope
I’ve had the nerve to cross,
and I thought you would meet me
halfway.
I am slipping on these threads,
for I can’t even pretend at the form
of creature you desire to find here.
These filaments do not stick for me.
My interpretations combust,
but I don’t see how I could have
traced the strings of this web
toward any other center.
On the meadow
at midnight in the rain,
a trio of Mallards.
The yellow, florescent
lights, flooding and harsh–
an artificial haze
cast of gold–
make two heads glow,
still, with an iridescent green,
more metallic that pearl-luster,
as grass cowers.
Two quack
a throaty chortle
in contended fashion,
shining orange beaks
sifting out the fare
concealed in the grass,
as the third
in shades of bronze
watches me
with avian eyes.
*~*~*~*
An earlier draft of this was published in Chiasma in April 2008.
