(How does it die?)
desired word unbounded
asks questions never answered
weaving among lines surrendered
among shoulders
a spiral for melody, a spiral
water driven & phrased
“heart hard as leather”
a dream dreamed
not yet walked
out on: dearest climbers
of ivory towers
to put this song
gutter-down my sad face
galloping away, this world without you
is an impossibility, hoofed in an octave
strapped in the volta
it was a million to one
(What must it meet up with on the dissecting table for it to look beautiful?)
double crossed: two versions
shift of joint in the ball socket
a dove song on limbs
folded out on the table
a discarded, opened envelope
betrayed by fingerprints
smudges in the eye creases
across the sunset
orange splattered about the dark
no ticket stub to mark the occasion
in a that sky
it’s a long armed horizon
its slice of clouding
a curve where light comes
to be eye to eye
up to the crease
the crack where I break you
(With what two objects would one wish to see it in the desert?)
cyclical bands of light, a greenery
to remember I jot down this quiet
honeysuckle, the way ivory smells
or how your hair was collected
a paring down in the sloughing off of cells
ritually I bore you up
but under wing
I wanted to splice each gamete
each stylized stamen, pistil
whipped and lovely as locks
a castling where the moat is full
of dandelions
where the tea is half nettle
half collated fingernails
(On which spot of the nude body of a woman would you place it?)
shattered
shuttled sapphire
spored scaffolding:: sound/sound
speech supplicated slivers
sirens sized
saw
skinned
silvered sideways
scar
shadow she
subtitled she
scattered she
(And if the woman were sleeping?)
for tracey mctague
above in a state of dirty corners
swept up: this sad conclusion
yew trees clipped
the earth opened up to spit
cat claw roots
bulbs bigger than a baby’s head
an avocado tree of one yellow leaf
distracts me from the story
outside of this geography
two warblers you were
crooning a tale of cross citied
distaste
I sat on a wire downwind & smelled
something burning
this triangle seems darker
but its little light is how we came
to belly up bar-faced in pits of oyster shell
it was all giggles, fat tips
and a balance of encrusted
exteriors
(And if she were dead?)
in the slendered perfect
arm bones, leg bones, a soup
of hands tilted, listening, tiny ear bones
clicking to aside
to aisle
to assemble
a row of thorns flowering beneath the breast
a row of cutlets firming in the sun
I cut out bandages from loose leaf
to spoon up blood
spun tendons round the joints
I flexed and fidgeted
the lights stayed dim
no inhale on the out take
no late dream before awake
Megan Burns edits the poetry magazine, Solid Quarter (solidquarter.blogspot.com). She has been most recently published in Jacket Magazine, Callaloo, New Laurel Review, Trickhouse, and the Big Bridge New Orleans Anthology. Her book Memorial + Sight Lines was published in 2008 by Lavender Ink. She has two chapbooks, Frida Kahlo: I am the poem (2004) and Framing a Song (2010) from Trembling Pillow Press. She lives in New Orleans where she and her husband, poet Dave Brinks, run the weekly 17 Poets! Literary and Performance Series.