11/6/2016 2 Comments Five Poems by Christopher IaconoSkydiving Life After Gerald Laing’s Skydiver VI (1964) The rush of wind reshapes your cheeks as you jump out the door eight miles over the earth. You battle the sky to regain control of your body, to break gravity’s tether, release yourself from the anchor to your earth. You prove we weren’t meant to fly, we were meant to dance on the celestial ballroom, the floorless expanse. You visit rooms of clouds occupied by watery veins through skin of grass and dirt, they bring back memories: the job you walked away from, the slamming bedroom doors, calls from neighbors, the school, all of those whip through your mind. You pull the cord. Red,white parachute stripes wave in the blue like a freedom flag. You land on your feet, the chute collapses behind you, detach the cords. Now the real freefall begins. Love-in-a-Box All around the mulberry bush…. The sun touches your hands,held together as you float over the freshly cut springtime lawn. Then you stop to gaze at your reflections in each other’s irises, mistaking the tiny ghosts for souls…. The monkey chased the weasel…. Bursts of red wound the night sky, smoke billowing over its deep purple bruises. You let go of each other’s hands to stretch them in the air and cheer for freedom…. The monkey thought it was all in fun…. You try to hold onto your red and gold leaves, but a cold wind wraps around the branches and brushes them away. That same wind also gives you the freedom you were celebrating years before…. Pop - ! Now you’re sitting on a bed, staring at the empty space in the driveway while the window collects ice. Your son is turning the crank, but Jack remains coiled inside the box. Hartford Circus Fire, 1944 The lion marched by the fire eating at the wax, strike up the band, “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Stay in your seats, but no one can hear him. Men, women, boys, girls run, shrieks drowning out the crackling flames devouring the wall by the exit blocked by big cat chutes. Mothers escape only to run back in or circle the ground, flaming pieces of the roof streak below the big top. Drifters leap over bleachers, cracking bones on the floor, crawling toward the body piles in front of the collapsing paraffin, gasoline blanketing the audience screaming one last time. Throwing water on the smothering flames, the clown cries, not because one brought fire, but because one brought hate to the greatest show on earth. Fur (for Méret Oppenheim) “Everything goes with fur,” according to Picasso. So I wrapped a cup, a saucer and a spoon in fur, and everyone loved it, including Mr. Breton, who encouraged me to “hunt down the beast of habit,” and the man from New York bought my Fur Breakfast. And men who wanted to touch it were willing to kneel at my feet. But then the soldiers came and forced us out of our homes and packed our people into camps to await the inferno. Meanwhile, the money vanished, so I said au revoir to Paris and returned to the land of my birth - a different kind of hell - where the beast of habit breakfasts everyday with my furry objects. Picasso was right: fur goes with everything, even this prison. Sandbar For the fourth time tonight I drain this wine glass to block you out. Within minutes, the liquid is gone - nothing but one last watery bead containing your name. I’m tempted to swallow you- make you disappear forever- but I lack the power to disintegrate you. I lack the courage to grab the glass and raise it to my lips and let the bead dissolve in my kiss. Instead, I let my body sink in the chair, because even though you’re not here, your words burn away my strength until it's charred driftwood, bobbing in the ocean. So I sit back and close my eyes, and watch the waves wash the driftwood onto the sandbar, waiting for you to save it. Bio: Christopher Iacono lives with his wife and son in Massachusetts. You can learn more about him at cuckoobirds.org.
2 Comments
toni
3/14/2017 01:59:03 pm
I've enjoyed reading your work. I can't let go of the following lines:
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8/18/2017 04:22:59 am
Hello,
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