The birth of color begins in the entanglementof water. Color is the birth of light.
Low clouds morning visitation, the words areforming separable from their origins. Stars
crease the heavens. I have been movinginto their stream, heavenly bodies, the architecture
loose and ungainly. I’m not one but two, the occupancyof a system, here in the apparel of another’s
light, to come down these stairs, dawnweighted with silver, a perimeter that hooks
sky, bleeds our nights into day. There is thissanctuary, intricate respite, cut-out, here on the floor
The Way
If only the waters were still this blue,the boats this innocent. The sea,the clouds, the cliff faces: blue, blue, blue.
And me in a red dress with a blue mantledraped over my lap to keep my legs warm.It’s true, I’m sitting on a coffin
with the lid down. The lidis called a crown. The coffin is filledwith what happens when evil takes over
the world and says yes to givingthe lost unlimited hateand all the weapons they want. You’ll say,
“That wasn’t my fault, I’m like you, Mary,I was only ever being fabricand two hands, harmless arms and a mind
filled with maxims—only ever on my wayto tomorrow, my right foot at reston the head of a cherub.” Do you hear
In Situ
Sometimes the language tenders its own resonant edge, as when one reads
of how the remains remain submerged, as in in-place drownings of forests.
I first read of their somber strains in a letter speaking of being consumed,
in French la noyade, the name of a scent mixed from blood cedarwood,
maritime pine, cypress, onycha tincture, seaweed, a song sunk enough to
call it sodden. There is nothing heavier than an unnamed waterlog that longs
to be sounded if not instinctively spelled. I should say must, instinctively, note
Hello, piggies, who snore, root, farrow and brave. Welcome piggies, though, more accurately: welcome to me. I welcome myself into your midst. I’ve arrived here after a long journey from that plane only marginally lower than this one, but from which it’s nearly impossible to ascend.
Piggies, as recently as two clicks ago, you would’ve found me down there, pouring molten gold into small mammalian skulls tidily excavated from owl pellets and spring floods. Mole, vole, shrew, more. Cauldron, ladle, funnel, fill. Cool. The cracks and hollows, sockets and circuits, now gaping, now all silent gold.
The relict lay reading in the contractor’s bad grass. I used to breathe sleep eat poetry. Until could not see to read except the large-print books, mysteries, tell-alls, and how to build waterfalls, but could see the hollows in the small of his buttocks, the fair hair feathering into his pitchy seam.
I could see rings of brilliance beyond any visible human means.
Alice was actually a labeler and not a pickler. Still, she knew what Mr. H’s picklers did was nothing like her grandmother’s pickling, sweaty and stained and clouded by hot vinegar steam, shoveling already rotting vegetables into their boiling bath like some kind of unbelieving prayer. Everyone winced when eating what came out of her grandmother’s pickle jars. Mr. H’s were made of faceted clear glass, and the bobbing pickles inside were a bright, inviting candy-green. To look at one was to feel it snip crisply between your teeth, to set your mouth watering. Alice was midwife to that salivary burst. That was what she dressed up for. Today it mattered even more than usual.
Day Book
One wants to grasp a latch. The broken star, the cellophane. One suffers if untethered from the pain that brought a lock. Across the way the husband tends his teeth. The wife redresses, parted from her paper. To emblemize, to separate the word grief reaches. Grief reaches, unseduced.
He had thought for a while of having his ashes placed on a ship propelled out to sea while being set aflame with burning arrows—in his dotage, my father grew obsessed with Norse myth—but in today’s regulatory environment, bringing him here was the closest feasible compromise. “The best moment is when Fenris the giant wolf appears,” he’d told me on Zoom, his voice trembling only slightly. “It draws everyone’s attention, so nobody will be watching you. Do you remember how you used to cry when we got to the wolf?” This sounds more like something Ulf would do, although Ulf doesn’t remember coming here either. Most likely it was a lost intention of my father’s. He might have spent a day talking to strangers in a bar about planning a trip here, an imagined bout of quality time so vivid it became real for him in retrospect. Towards the end, the winter and the lockdown getting to him, my father was drinking forty ounces of vodka a day. I may not have been his favorite son, but I was the one who agreed to scatter his ashes here once, and if, the park reopened after COVID. Ulf would never violate theme park rules.
Slay
“O orzchis ecclesia … es chorzta gemma” – Sibyl of the Rhine
O measureless church … you are a sparkling gem scored from the lingua ignota, the language of the unknown. Secret tongue of the sleepless alphabet. You probe the lowest bass of body’s dark matter. I swing my hips to your rebel science of spheres.
When you asked if your poem was controversial I consulted a Penrose diagram made to see the entirety of spacetime through a black hole. Light rays at the beginning of everything null infinity, the channel we now ignore.
So here I am, back at the counterculture, that open tower in the sky. It travels through the city within the floating city, wavering like heat on flexed concrete. I dream of the fractal fuel we used to turn into optimal stanzas.
She named the dog after a Hollywood actor, someone she had shared a scene with once. She had only one line in the film. She looks straight at the camera with her famous dark eyes—someone once called them wounds—and asks or says, A beautiful view? This was supposed to hint at one of her current scandals. Once, on one of those rare nights when she asked me to sit with her after dinner, her face red with port, which she drank out of those miniature crystal glasses you have to hold with your fingertips, she said, That’s your father’s name. Of course, the years don’t add up, but then my mother was never interested in the truth, or rather, her truth was fluid, changing with circumstance or whim. But she didn’t lie, she believed whatever she said completely. This, more than anything else, was why men fell in love with her.
The Inside of a Wolf
I gut the wolf. All I find is a hole/and I follow/the hole farther in and farther/into earth shaped like a great sigh./The earth, open and airy/as sky. The earth is blue/as thought inside, farther/and further, the wandering/into earth, until a great opening opens/up beneath the hole/and suddenly nothing has a body. Nothing/has a body but me. Into the belly/of the wolf I fall, farther/and forward into emptiness. Inside/the earth is blue. Blue/is the absence of all/earth, all body, and I tumble into blue/so shattering, so empty/all body comes/back, a kind of courage, holding on to one’s body, so/tight, while tumbling/and turning/into a sigh. Holding on/to one’s body so tight/all breath is lost. Falling/into the earth, so careless/with its emptiness, so daring,/hiding inside a wolf, the moon’s mouth.
Olga’s coworker, known privately as her Work Wife, had said the wrong thing about Olga’s new haircut. “It doesn’t look like the photo you showed me,” she’d said. This is what the Work Wife fixated on, rather than the glory of the haircut before her. The Work Wife said something else about the staff potluck later that day, but Olga could barely hear her. She cut the conversation short and walked back to her cubicle. Olga could feel the Work Wife rolling her eyes. It was ruined between them now, at least for the day. The Work Wife had said other things to her over the years. During a discussion of celebrity lookalikes: “You have a striking resemblance to Anne Frank.” After Olga had accidentally, horribly, dug a deep, slow-to-heal hole in her cheek while popping a pimple and tried to hide it with makeup: “What happened to your face? Asking as a friend.” And yet, how Olga loved her, the Work Wife. And yet, how she hated her, the Work Wife.
Amid the storm, a phantom
formerly Coronado remarks:
“I was the beating heart inside
that insidious breastplate.”
Between bursts of hailstones
his companion confesses,
“I was the low-level prelate
sent to raise a clay church and
ring the altar with paintings
of the most fantastic torments.”
The rain’s fierce silver slashes
red hills above a spatter of cactus.
A fringe of lightning, unfurling
from a black cloud, tears apart
some first and final place.
Old ghosts fade out, become
songbirds at the cusp of
the mating season.
When you were the size of a fist, a coyote dragged a three-year-old Angeleno out of the living room by the Peter Pan collar of her pale yellow shirt. She survived but was left with a sizable scar on her cheek. The scar resembled an American flag, pocks for stars and gouges for stripes. Her mother was on the news all the time, which led to the child signing a deal with an agency, and quite soon after that, the child and her scar started appearing on billboards as the new face of a California restaurant chain that sold bratwursts. Last month, for reasons unrelated, the little girl passed away. The querent used to say we come back as either human or animal, that in the spirit world, there is no delineation. It’s nice to think the end isn’t the end. Though I wouldn’t dare say that to the dead girl’s mother.
What we had done was trample on Johnson’s city, four sheets of paper, loosely placed side by side, with buildings growing in no particular visual perspective, some upwards, some in profile, some in three dimensions but others in blueprint, and this, we felt intuitively, was a triumph of Johnson’s city, or would-be city, it’s resistance to confinement, its ability to transcend.
And we sat with Johnson. We consoled. We patted Johnson on the back and said that we might rebuild it, that it could be rebuilt. That it could be better and that we could help.
We collected the roll of white butcher paper from its mount and unfurled it across the linoleum, gathered the colored pencils, the crayons and scented markers and watercolors and even the Sharpies we’d hidden in our cubbies. We collected scissors and Scotch tape, and began to connect the sheets of paper, for there would be no limit to what we could design.
Nocturne
Midnight at the pit of my irrelevance: a hair’s breadth away, I step closer to the mouth of it, no more afraid to shake hands with my lacuna than a bird is of the air whistling in its bones. To stay possible as long as possible
had felt like enough now—a persistence of streaks in soft butter yellow shed from the clock tower onto the indigo- freaked slate-to-black vagueness that indicates the river. The light lives
Silence
I thought I was good because I had borne the brunt of society’s manhandling, because through halls of terror I fled and gangs of girls followed me, seeking to press thumbs deep into my arms, cheeks, back of my neck, thighs, because goodness lay heavy in the air around me, because most around me were powerful underprivileged role models, I thought it good enough to know and read vexatious histories and in my own private sanctum feel the pain, to dwell in sorrow through theater and dance, that just by being around, goodness could rub off on a person
The island appeared in the playa – a thick family of vegetation in sand as if risen from the undulation of blued snow over grasses, purple. Huddling through time, as bodies green and dark in me knew better, yet compelled me to run from the tall thick house where I lay resting and take refuge from the wind where wind blew.
The feet trudge the path of the eyes.
Vouch for snow-covered trails skirted by galvanic tamaracks, the previous fall’s needles a carpet of #2 pins.
Vouch for garrulous waxwings captivating powerlines, mesmerizing middle C and rising, coloratura clouds.
Vouch for the rich acoustic world of moths fallen silent, streets of pupal stillness, bodies suspended in glycerol sleep.
I. THE SYMMETRY
In the beginning, they told us that only babies born with a herringbone of downy fuzz running the full length of their spines carried the gene. Then it was the nostrils: if one was larger than the other. From there, it grew into a hysteria of symmetry. If one eye was squintier the baby was a carrier. One ear higher. One testicle smaller. Left side of the labia fatter. Oh, how Richard squirmed at this. To think of his daughter having labia; such a prickly word for his pure baby girl whom we’d designed one night on a whiz of bubbly wine and goat cheese, right down to her delicate parts. That area I engineered, being the woman and inherently more attuned to shades of pink, shapes of flower petals, and all. But, still, nothing was guaranteed.
No, that’s not it, that’s not how it happens, it’s—
—because I’m here, have been for years and years, in the backseat of the Oldsmobile 88, top down, wind enraged, tearing along some country road at night, Jackson drunk at the wheel, Ruthie by his—
—the world all quick nervous giggles and skinfizz, the whirled world, the world like leaves spinning in a crazy autumn gust, only it’s not autumn, no, that’s, it’s what, it’s—
Still Life With Flying Sombreros
Three sombreros hung on pegs in a cantina, where their owners stood at a bar, soaking in the tequila. The sombreros got to talking and soon discovered they all despised their owners. “My man,” a sombrero said, “came home drunk every night and beat his wife and children with a hard stick he kept just for that purpose.” Another sombrero confessed that his owner sat on a porch and shot cats that had strayed into his garden. He skinned the cats and displayed their pelts over the fireplace.
birds, vital furniture for our eyes. The floor refoliatesa dozenfold. Monthsthese days waltztriple-timewithin us. Echoes of fundamental shapes. Great-
grandfather, Harry Houdini’s accountant.Isaac, our cousin the Don, muscled his way into King’s spitting distance.All told, saythe performance outlived the performer?O
She used the word alabaster too often. And breath, as if her body always knew what lay ahead, the repetition of need. Even absence became a title. Even then long shadows danced in the room, wind slithering under the door. There was a hint of that tricky left eye, still squinting, an itch to become worse. Fire had its annual appearance, though not at first, and always confused with a sense of death or doom. Throughout there was a certain rage, a questioning, “how can this be?” Rage might be a response to events, or it might have always simmered, a disorder from birth.