thirteen perspectives on the poet

-
thirteen perspectives on the poet

I.
She presses her cheek against the world's chest,
recording what she hears. 

II.
She speaks in color for 
the hard of ear
and music for the hard of eye. 

III.
She holds her pen like eggshells—
she knows
that what's inside is fragile.

IV.
She writes
and so participates.

V.
She says
‘the sun is green’ and makes
it green.

VI. 
She scurries up a ladder of light.

VII. 
She pulls, unraveling
the knot of what is trite.
She ties it in a bow.
VIII.
She doesn’t fully comprehend 
and doesn’t wish to. 

IX.
Sometimes she tugs and bends
a thing until it breaks.

X.
She paints in blood.
You want to believe
that blood
is beautiful.

XI.
Her pen 
grows inky legs 
and beetles off to find
itself.

XII. 
The world is her goal.

XIII.
Sometimes she breaks, 
sometimes makes whole.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Quorum Present?

-
Do We Have a  Quorum?  Well we’re present—this hangnail of the living  contingent—and then  there’s the unaccounted for who came before quite likely peering in—for all  we know—through the wood-frame windows, eager to wipe a dust-hole  with their thumbs and watch the goings-on to see if we arrive at a kind  of consensus. So to answer your question,  yes. And speaking of questions, theirs are ours and we carry the weight of them in the damp manila folders of our lives, eager to take the stand: On behalf of all of us, then, Why does it cost so much? Are we,  on this end of the bench, being  heard? And then, in a word,  what are we going to do about it? 
Read more

The Bends

-
 THE BENDS           At a certain depth the voices all thrum at the same, garbled pitch.  Both wisdom and the waiting swarm of bees call you up for air,  both wisdom and the Anglerfish draw you deeper. Do you paddle faster  from Leviathan or close your eyes and wait?  Once inside, do you stab the tender heart or caress it? There’s leagues on leagues but we’re in  out of ours and the tanks are low. You die if you come up too quick, you die  if you don’t surface soon, and at this sounding we won’t be dragged out by the light  of the moon. As to good news, t he returned ship sloshes vacant  at port while the wreck is found  at rest on solid ground, home now  to an ecosystem riddled with life.
Read more

Refurbished

-
Refurbished The ladybug died  wedged in wicker,  is spray-painted green.  Disassemble yourself.  Free trampoline.  Not one to jump to conclusions, but if even pipe-smoke throws a shadow in moonlight, nothing is ever full- nothing, right?  The trees agree to lower the veil and reveal the bare strip of road which runs behind the house.  The white roar of leaving  never leaves, and the porch  light flickers but never goes out.  In a world of partially resurrected things, the quick and the dead dance a rumba then collapse in a tangled heap to make  furious love till morning shakes the can and picks a fade-resistant shade of light.
Read more