7/8/2017 Poetry by Rachel BusnardoI’m listening to Bon Iver in an honest effort to be more like you. I know what you said. I know the day is still young because I already want to go home and flex in the dark. Overtime the body blooms but not in the way you said. Each year the deer gaggle on the lawn looking for something dead to taste under the snowpack. Their shit sinks into the weather-ridden yard and we will never find it no matter how many shovels we buy. That’s what shit does. I’m not asking you to love me; I’m asking you to see the cogs synchronizing below the surface. All those wheels grinding the shit back to life. Is Borg Short for Borges? I cannot be asked to speak a moment sooner than when the silence breaks, paralleling the manner in which the bough performs the same story. What voice, what specter is this that knows me by name? Behind the name is that which has no name; Blue skies weren’t blue until it was said to be so, and so, in our own universe, there’s a tumbler of voices polishing the diction. And if all this is connected let it be by the supreme firings of neurons and star light then star dark clusters and systems chattering with the mechanisms that keep us syncing, dancing— with every twirl, a silhouette tunnels beneath their tales, swishing pressure to the ear as we dance from one self to another to another & another to each other. Magic Trick He tried to make a name for himself twirling out all those answers you see, he doesn’t like questions well, actually he’d rather imagine the things you ask-- Now you see me, trying to say body but my mouth is all ohs well, actually who cares what I said, nobody wrote it down. Now you see me balancing on a broken heel the red velvet stuffed with fetid rabbits; now you see me with my flesh pressed against the cold glass of a human-shaped box. He says he can teach me real magic make a perfect O, he says maleficarum, dovahkiin, event horizon, rutabaga, no Now you see me catching a bullet out of mid-air; the audience roars to their feet & then, on that stage I curl up like a question exhaled from the barrel of his mouth remembering my shape just long enough to disappear. Bio: Rachel Busnardo lives in Boulder, Colorado with her partner. She grows tomatoes and has strong opinions. Comments are closed.
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