11/14/2017 Poetry by Samara GolabukDan Finnen Anatomy of Under Upward shining light folds ever newer suns around a bilious, fibrous length, reaching down for what is needed, spiral down in uncomely haste offering up what is not expire/transpiration-- beautiful poison, an altar-leaving for the face of day I've been made backwards from flowers those antitheses of reason. I tumble on the surface, unbound and dangerous, loosing my appetite on the sky unlike the sensible gentians, who stretch the translucent white fingers of thirst into gravity and blindness, to rock and earth, ripe with worms little worms, little worms, grimy angels feathering through soil broken pieces of circle curl- ing against the downward shining dark. Thoughts while digging in a patch of barren earth Will the microbes forgive us? The earthworms and their bounty have gone, and all things green, virile and small have passed this patch by: neither root here crabgrass, nutsedge or spurge, neither land here the wandering spores that erupt in wet pleasure when it rains. Wild and liberated, they are-- to this circle of dead earth-- now named fungus derelictionis. There was a grown pine here once, then a stump some years later, and still after that a shimmering termite nest that got the kerosene and fire-- there was smoke for days, then a terrible fairy circle on the lawn. It made the house safe from the wood-eaters, that minor conflagration, but we expunged the soil-loving things, too. Now, I am digging space for something-- after the tree, pine bugs, mites and divorce-- something, an invasive, even, and wondering: will the microbes forgive me? And the earthworms? The gift of no guarantees When forever went out of my vocabulary, golden moons hung whispers of tomorrow on my ears to let me know time was still okay. When grief burnt the impurities from the pockmarks of my ex-marriage, I wore the blessed relief of uncertainty in a carrying sling and held it close for a while, murmuring, swaying. I slept when dragons roared. I woke to a silence that pinged my ears in polyphonic glory—too much metal in my chi, too much Libra in my chart, happy is a coin I have no change for, but wish for a gift of it in a China cup, a sip, a gorgeous sip of it. Sparking The jutting moon perturbs our angular momentum. The annular sound from four speakers shapes itself around us as we move, a slowing hum and purr belying static's carborundum swaths. Windows close their eyes. A dog howls. You howl, and the frictive bolus of my pubic hair skrits against your palm, a wolf near dawn. Thin light melts its way down treeline’s lush foliage, a visual sigh. Pink-yellow morning, coffee soon, no time at all, our hands together, a smile, a yawn. ![]() Bio: Samara is a two-time Pushcart nominee whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Inklette, Eyedrum Periodically, Peacock Journal, Eunoia Review and others. She has two children, works in marketing and design, and has returned to university to complete her BA in Poetry. More at www.samarawords.com. Comments are closed.
|
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
December 2024
Categories |