Issue 5
Two Poems

Two Poems

Opera 

 

                                                                                                                                                                        Fate / fatality 

                                                                                                                                                                    Amore / Et mort 

 

I hinder Hypnos and his half-brother during so-called night, 

Night, a subjective / relative overlap when shadow-mind pulls the lashes down one’s eyes, pulls The wool

over one’s sheep, caws from one’s throat, the raven of death.   

 

As a prognosticating predator, a carrion crow 

As a myopic mediator, a psychopompos 

At dusk, birthing into our deluding lucency 

 

Echoes on ghosted salt flats of pre-memory,  

Red / black checkered hunting breeches I wore, a de facto Elmer J. Fudd, 

Seriously harming myself and shkeuwing up, night after night after night. “Night” as a farewell 

When blasting off into astronomical eventide. Once the glow fades. Once  

Night went on for days. Night, as what’s left  

Of glittering detritus in the morn, pointing, declaiming, “That was Night.”  

Intelligences perceive night  

Through as a variety of orbital periods. Dreams, too, 

Can collide like celestial bodies, like nebulae desires with impacts on life.  

Like the disappearance of sunlight, loss of sleep, of an envelope  

In which Night is sealed or wrapped in starry gift paper of 

Fearsome lightlessness and midnight vacuum.   

Once I believed I couldn’t live one more night, the fecundity of day: triple  

Crème brie. Night, a painting I lent you one noon, a parting gap for your private hands,  

Recollecting how you collect herbs to dry as visual memories of warm 

Nights, a bundle of desiccated twigs strung like stars in a closeted planetarium.  

 

 

The Other Cat 

 

So much worse for the wood that finds it’s a violin*  

 

So much worse for the jay heart that beats beside frog hearts and skunk hearts and beaver 

hearts and five adjoined earthworm hearts and find that together the hearts are the mountain heart which

sings to the wavy hair on mountain’s scalp, flying through tangled currents of air 

 

So much worse for the rabbit hide that finds it’s bearing a book of psalms 

 

So much worse for Daphne who trips on her rhizome of a tale which alters like tensile light 

across time, though endures forever a single-stitched plot 

 

So much worse for Murasaki who reads under a scholar tree and finds she’s read, sounds cast 

across millennia, sucked into strains of birdsong that circle her dewy brow in the morning mist 

 

So much worse for Schrödinger’s cat whose shadow pixelates as he walks from the box to 

sun’s umbra, cradling him in adumbrated dream  

 

 

_______________________________________ 

*From a letter by Rimbaud to Georges Izambard.