After hearing Natasha Trethewey's poem, "Myth"

The poet speaks about dreaming

of dead mothers and I

wide-eyed feel exposed

in the solemn quiet room.

That night I dream

of you, as if the poet’s words

are an incantation.

We are leaving

a library together,

you wearing a pale

linen suit and lipstick,

and I walk ahead

because it has been so long

since I had to

wait for you.

And looking back,

you had fallen and lost

your shoes.  I come

and clean off your

muddied pant leg

with my hand

and lift you, your

body the battered

softness of mother.

I remember now

what it is to be

a daughter, to have

someone to wait for,

crossing whole

cement plains of a

city’s inconsequence

Together.

You ask questions

that are not malicious

but soothing, exploratory-

a reminder that there is

someone that does not

look to damage your

pride but build it like

a kingdom

kept by all women.

Our stone legacy.

You tell me

you would like to see

Finland before

you die. I know you

are dead because this is

my dream but I start

booking night flights

to the deepest snows,

to the kind of country

I imagine Finland to be.

I consider the toughness

of boarding trains

when your leg is so swollen

and heavy. I consider

your hydration, your

bowel movements.

My plans disintegrate

into sickness-

your stomach hardened,

a mass of coiled tree roots.

In the morning,

I lay in bed with thin

lines of daylight coming

through the blinds,

falling across

my belly, greening my eyes.

I hold onto you

for a few more minutes

and try and memorize

your outline, I try and

build a body out of sun dust.

I walk to the library

and drink coffee in the café.

As I sharpen a pencil, I watch

the curl of the shavings.

I feel treasured, suddenly

I feel full of meaning,

remembering what it’s like

to be a daughter. 

J.

I favor honor
above all other
extremes-
a decision
to pass on the
realist, cubist
composition
of bodies
moving,
mouths
moving
throats of
ghosts
their
sounds
moving;
and once
stopped in
floridian color
a smooth gather of
suited statics and finally
silently, the history of composition        recedes.

I.

I want to
transgress
into a    whole    space.
clattering image
stutters me,
struts and dis-
embodies me
but a sky scape
could moleculize
me so that
body and
memory
were vapor,
a weightless
global blanket.

G.

I love the idea
of mastery
but I have seen
what mastery
does when
mastery wants
to master
the world
even though
the master will
never hold
the whole globe
nor own the
wholeness of
new.  

F.

he drowned

swimming-

drowning-

words changing
when states
change like
chemistry
but unlike
chemistry he
is rotted by
stagnant
grammar
the small
sign posts
of correct.
he died in
pale blue
the water
like sick skin
without breath
and sunk down
to roll sweet
with lakeweed.
In private
silence,
the end
like autonomy,
the mastery of
concise.

E.

the meal
was ruin,
a pie
crusted
         reminder
of over
and under.
a drowning
of years
the stories
sopping.

D.

mouthing
bread with
old gums
slick with
sour,
like a
baby
waiting
for first
teeth.
break red
through
and make
meals like
wonder.

C.

I think
he was
the whole
throat of
mountains.
no sound,
nor light.
nearing the
still that
makes
gods open
awe mouthed.

B.

which letter
is able
to give
          a way,
                  a home less
dialect?
summer
in the throat
to relieve
one person
from
rust.

A.

eat honey
that drips
from trees.
swallow
the red
amber
down
until your
throat is
soaked
with
sound.

dust comes
up
pollen-yellow,
breathing
chalk wisp
to paint
words with.

And then
I am a
locality:
frequent,
patient,
and a
product
of pieces.