Poetry By Clara Angeline Smith

Paul Sableman CC




DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT
(Title inspired by Arrested Development 2003)

Probably the bed,
Or the porch,
Would be a better place to spend your time
But you like to idle inbetweenspaces. Because
You cannot nail your wrist
Into the wall
Or fish it out
Of His fist.
You cannot be as scared
Of God as molten lava
You have never touched lava
And you’ll never touch God

But you believe you got close
Once–to touching God or lava–
You’re not sure.
Whether it was 
                 The memory of searing fingertips
                                 Touching your old skin, that was 
                                                  Too young to remember being touched
Or your own fingertips digging into the mantle
                                 Of the Earth
                                                 Blistering from the mostly solid rock
That left your body numb for so long

                Iron and magma, gas and crystals, oxygen, oxygen
                Melted and burnt, burnt, burnt

Once a good fighter, in your head,
Now aware that you’re a minor threat in this 
Current callow-filled upstream
                So you seek out the advice of professionals.
Whoever suggested a hobby to
An addict, or a recovering floater
Is asking for a miracle
But you find yourself wrist-deep in
Brown soil,
Sweating away the last bit of the September heat
                 Whole time she’s off–somewhere
                 Secluded–
But, you’re on a healing mission,
You call it gardening, but really,
It’s turned into a sort of
Uprooting of memories

You used to spend too many days
Wandering hallways and crying,
Nailing your wrist to the wall, and
Crying some more as the claw
Of the hammer pries out the nail.
All the while the urge to nail your 
Wrist. To suffer for something more
Than this. Never goes away 

But it gets easier, and the holes in your wrists heal
So when it’s real bad, now, you’ll scream at no one,
               Every bad thing comes from and at you, old man!
               You’re a lying-low dead dog
                             Dying.
You scream so loud
The whole house wakes
Though they’re not sure who
You’re screaming to,
              You just barely came close
              To a good man trying
              To get his life back on track
              Whole time she’s off–lying on her back!

The anger
Feels worse than
Any withdrawal symptom.
The taste of vengeance 
In your foaming mouth 
Seems brand new.

For so long,
You only thought of roadkill
And coke bottles and melting plastic
With a makeshift rig
Never the passage of time or consequences


So you feel lucky to get a second shot at living
Not a lot of people in your situation do

So you trade retaliation for aromatherapy
You keep smelling salts on you
Say things like “Good afternoon,”
“I’m well.” “How are you?”
And are more present
Finally putting yourself
In better rooms

And when you're three years post-
self-induced calamity 
Far away from the core of the earth,
Or any stranger’s fireplace

You’re in the bathroom
Your nose pressed
To that spot on her neck, she says,
Your perfume is mine to share
Not a question, but 
Yes, you breathe

You slow dance with each other
Down the hallway into the kitchen 
And your insides are feeling normal again
Your cravings subsided and
You can keep food down now.
That night, you spread butter
On sliced bread
You gorge on wings and a pointed
But soft and chewy beak.

Outside the kitchen window,
You see what looks like a dog
By the side of the road
Chewing on hot rubber.
She pretends not to see
But that thing deep in your belly
Is awake again
               Crystals and gas, oxygen, oxygen, oxygen
Your plate is empty but your
Mouth salivating

There is no dessert,
She says,
Only dead dove in your teeth.

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Clara Angeline Smith is originally from Orange County, but now resides in Portland, Oregon, where she writes, works, and realizes she cannot run away from the glamorous heartache that is Southern California. If she is not writing poetry, she can be found rolling around in a pile of dirt, floating around your room in a vintage dress, begging you to show her the most shameful parts of yourself, and forcing you to watch her favorite horror movie as she whispers, “I have nothing to fear because God is on my side.”

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