—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?
Scripts for the Future
chatter around town will be of blindness all ghosts will be Russian ghosts at parties always the law here is to sing, believe me no thought-bubble tarries above your head for all the brethren to read, they’re streaming a film on the history of the sun since eyes evolved to see underwater do you prefer photos of landscapes or photos of people, you choose the figure for god among the lavish descriptions of polar deserts, information clouds known as the neobeautiful, watching four-minute videos on how to draw blood samples with a butterfly needle you will all have gone ancestral by then say unto them that you were changed into a heliotropic plant then back to a woman then a plant again, unlucky women carry too much yellow bile what paleozoic sunlight was like acknowledge soul begins in the liver take the vexing thought to the anagram machine: net worth metamorphoses into a wet thorn, tell me what my “about” shall be there’s a cherry tree at the center of puberty, a chlorine hand wash before entering love’s written all over your face, my love what incredible footage has emerged