ARE NOT NO TEAR

Dora Malech

from      form
for to rest upon,      rent of, stop our
notes’      onset.
O sentence      once tense,
skin      inks
indelible, was      libel, sawed in
a shelf      aflesh.
In meat,      I meant,      in meat
begin      being
read,      dear,      a red
season      as one’s
affairs      afar, ifs
in wet blossom      blown, so I stem.
Flower      flew, or
eros      rose,
or trees      reset, or
please      elapse
is lips,        is lips.      I slips
it into night.         In tonight, it
plays      splay,
sore throats’ dins I      shored into stars. I
read      dare
to be a snow-pure      re-up, a bet won so
on aim,      on I am,
throw      worth
its harm,      this arm,
mute song      sung to me,
a moot      am too.

More by Dora Malech

Each year

                  I snap the twig to try to trap
the springing and I relearn the same lesson.
You cannot make a keepsake of this season. 
Your heart's not the source of that sort of sap,
lacks what it takes to fuel, rejects the graft,
though for a moment it's your guilty fist 
that's flowering. You're no good host to this
extremity that points now, broken, back at
the dirt as if to ask are we there yet.
You flatter this small turn tip of a larger 
book of matches that can't refuse its end,
re-fuse itself, un-flare. Sure. Now forget
again. Here's a new green vein, another
clutch to take, give, a handful of seconds.

Catoctin Mountain Park

 

He who thus considers things in their first growth and origin, whether a state or anything else, will obtain the clearest view of them.
—Aristotle, Politics (translated by Benjamin Jowett)

 

Look out across
the ridges of trees
flushed red
as if holding
their breath
to blue distance,
a wager made
with the sky.

Look out over
the Appalachians’
eastern rampart,
then scrap the word for parts—
before, prepare, fortify
to take possession of again.

On the road in, two wild
turkeys bustle off into
the brush.

Off the trail in wet leaves,
yellow eyes of a box turtle.

What I take
to be the stripes
of common shiner
in a riffle.

Alone, one might intone
whose woods, whose woods,
one might whisper
democratic vistas.

One might say
summit and Summit,
as elsewhere, but near,
are Aristotle’s other
animals—political—
at fenced and guarded
leisure, though the wind

passes as it pleases,
and when it shakes
the trees, it is not
an agreement at all.

Aleph, Bet

In my favorite version, the man recites the alphabet
over and over, and when asked, he says he is praying.
He admits he lacks the words, but says perhaps if he provides
enough letters, God can piece his purpose back together.

The word is kavanah, translates to concentration or intent,
without which, the words lie inert. And with? Call it all rise.
The urge made agent, leavens the lips, tongue, throat, and eyes.
In other words, heart’s yes, yeast, or likens to, likewise lives,

needs no light to grow. What say the brewer and baker?
What of the grapes in the sun with the yes on their skin,
the blush or bloom? And what of this yes’s twin, the, as they say,
opportunistic pathogen? I don’t believe I know. I’d like to ask

someone who knows, summon my strongest letters together and say:
How long do you think you knew before you knew you knew? Or rather,
how long do you think you think you knew before you dressed
your I guess in the yes you said I do to, to know you know now?