The bird has a sarynx, not a larynx.
Air a bitter switch that strikes the back,
I have no boat,
no crescent of lakewater lapping the lakehouse.
I have no lakehouse, what world is this.
I feel close to nature with ice water in my chest, fear’s wet nest.
I’ll etch on glass—
shallow mark, sharp tool.
Draw an arrow between want and lack, make a map of lack
and I’ve both killed a day and drawn a body.
In the dream of the white dog, a puncture wound;
slowly I made the ladymost sutures.
-Kerri Webster, “Ladymost”
I only wish to love you
A storm fills the valley
A fish the river
I have made you the size of my solitude
The whole world to hide in
Days and nights to understand
To see no more in your eyes
Than what I think of you
And a world in your image
And days and nights ruled by your eyelids.
-Paul Éluard, (trans. by A. S. Kline)
“I Only Wish To Love You”
It was when my little brother, who was two and a half years younger than I, died at eighteen months. My mother some days later found his footprints in the yard and tried to build something over it to keep the wind from blowing it away. That’s the most powerful image I’ve ever known.
-A. R. Ammons
At least I have the flowers of myself,
and my thoughts, no god
can take that;
I have the fervour of myself for a presence
and my own spirit for light;
and my spirit with its loss
though small against the black,
small against the formless rocks,
hell must break before I am lost;
before I am lost,
hell must open like a red rose
for the dead to pass.”