—After Ana Mendieta Did you carry around the matin star? Did you hold forest-fire in one hand? Would you wake to radiate, shimmer, gleam lucero-light? Through the morning would you measure the wingspan of an idea taking off— & by night would you read by the light of your own torso? Did you hear through the curtains a voice, through folds & folds of fabric a lowdown voice—How are you fallen from—How are you cut down to the ground? * Would gunpowder flash up in the other hand? Were you the most beautiful of them—the most beauty, full bew, teful, bu wtie, full be out, i full, btfl? Did the sky flutter & flower like bridal shrouds? Did a dog rise in the East in it? Did a wolf set in the West? Were they a thirsty pair? And was there a meadow? How many flowers to pick? And when no flowers, were you gathering bone chips & feathers & mud? Was music a circle that spun? * Did you spin it in reverse? Was your singing a rushlight, pyre light, a conflagration of dragonflies rushing out from your fire-throat? Did you lie down in the snow? Did it soften & thaw into a pool of your shape? Did you whisper to the graven thing, whisper a many lowdown phrase: How are you fallen my btfl? Would they trek closer, the animals? A grand iridium thirst, each arriving with their soft velour mouths to drink your silhouette?
Relapsing / Remitting
The lord doctor sits on the other side
of health from me. It’s a wall come between
flat & white &
spackled in places—
I was a student of ELOQUENCE.
I’d shape my mouth into a fountain
& out the names cascaded in June—
My brain is described in slow sentences
in similes like: grapefruit, telephones,
the medieval district of a city.
In ELOQUENCE though I couldn't fit
the madness in—no icy jackhammer
pneumatics, no I-can’t-hear-myself-think
Progress: the loss of neuron & synapse
Progress: tall lights of a stadium shut
one by one until the ballpark is left
in darkness. Then degeneration of
the temporal. Then furrows will close
the furrows the cheering voices carved
in the air will close. This is what happens—
cerebellum, the beautifulest sound
in the room
I rested my length in its green meadows.