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Abi Pollokoff

Homegrowths

 

A swift awakening of tongues, then quiet. A simmer underneath

of whittled folios, a perfect bind.

To form a history

out of tridents, the quill must acquiesce

against the rims of crystal glasses.

We bequeathed the life of a lightning strike.

 

I named the wind by the smokestack offerings.

A daily turbulence.

From above, the bridge indicts the orient of the sun.

Seeping estuary, unsought.

 

There, found overgrown gums: a rotten cemetery,

sleeping like the fading moon under the oaklegs. Roots

sucked up amber light into their tender marrow.

Nutrientrings.

Swallowings.

 

 

My pains are white and twiggy under the bright lights of these artifices.

Urban forestry, desexed. Alone, I am a bayou porch.

Rural birchbite.

Knees of cypress.

 

When we replaced our fingers with topiaries,

the strength of mint stalks became quantifiable.

Spine devours extremities for their succulents.

Impeccable blastocysts.

 

I forget, lately, how the body is. To carve shins from petrified trunks.

Hair from ironlace.

Fifolets spark from marsh water, I watch

as the baubles dance:

 

How the sun fidgets time into concentric circles and breathes back into itself.

 

 

 

I Sever, I Ought to Nudge the Obscene Fickleness

 

 

as I bit the heron, the ashed wings crisped, this dare of biting the ashed heron at the edge of the dock the dock where the ashed wings will never alight the dock that will wisp away all the ashes and the heron will be inside me.  I am frightened to know the power to tear the wings asunder—who am I to thunder to be brash to bring this ash to feather and doom?

 

The napkin’s task steals the ask from my lips, the feathered smudge a stain for my rose-red, the napkin crinkles like a crass castanet, how dare it!  Ow! It hurts, the ash, the smudge, it is too tough for me or for you, I know, you avoid the docks to sit on the dune and from where I sit you reflect in the water like a mutated moon.  I trench my knees, bury them away, draw points on the water with my toes, I make the stars my own, my star-toes, you mutated-moon, we are the night sky and the water cannot drown us even though when I look up and when I look down I am dizzy from raking the stars back onto my feet.

 

I reach for you for the moon for the ash that feathered in the wind and I cannot reach, my fingers are too near to me and so I reach I reach I finger I wrist off my arm and there you are—Stay, please Stay a while, we can preen off the edge of the dock in the water where you and I cannot drown but feather in the air like the heron will never do, but, It’s O.K., it’s inside me, I can carry you because you only weigh as much as a feather.

 


a lesson in decomposing

 

 

the noose you’re silking

fiddles with the thickness of your hemorrhage.

 

            train the boa to quill like a feather—pop like a mushroom—

hold like a infant’s fist around an index.

 

your femurs hinge in expectancy

the splinters save themselves

tuesday never seemed so shallow

to sit on a levee, a pact of arteries

 

 

from the tidings of the skeleton, it seems


 

rain quarried flesh like

 

a factory

 

 


Wildflower Mythology

 

 

The lady skirts

                                    the wildflowers,

afraid of their tendencies, the lady’s skirts

are wildflowers, catching patterns in breezes.

Pulling up weeds as wildflowers,

a medusa beauty, stolen tongues—

 

the lady’s tongue, a wildflower:

speaks into the curling sun.

She plucks the wildflower,

                        spins shadows into missing apostrophes.

Her wildflowers         yearn

for the mischief

of a foxen soil,

frail cacophonies—

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