Synecdoche

The first figurehead was an animal lashed to a pole on the front of a raft or a fishing boat. In all this, the bottom line, the signature, was tender for the gods: what could be bartered for a full day’s catch, the love of a woman, the breath of a child returned from the brink. Who knows when the first surrogate was carved out of wood, stained with dye from flowers and herbs, with soot and smoke? The chin juts out over water, and across its surface the long neck hovers like a blue-green shadow. It’s difficult to keep the body’s balance while holding the arms out in supplication, and so they’re lashed together at the elbows or wrists.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Anonymous.

Anonymous

This entry is part 17 of 22 in the series Alternate Histories

 

The first Anonymous was an albino who wrote a complete novel on his own skin in an effort to disappear into the text. Readers became so absorbed, they mistook his eyes for animated punctuation. In the novel, three sailors vied for the love of a nameless ship’s figurehead, who never unfolded her arms except for storms. It takes a lot of character to reject the comfort & convenience of a handle. You could die & nobody would know who they were burying, or you could live forever, fathering & mothering orphans.

The second Anonymous was less creative, as you’d expect. Sixty percent of his body was nothing but water.

El Camino

We read that story, tonight, about the woman who was moved to remember the name— the name and the life of the boy who came and stood outside her window all that cold, rainy night, before she went away— The name and the life of the boy who took to his bed a week after that— who took ill with bronchitis, pneumonia— it is not clear; then swiftly passed from this world to the next— And we read that it was a song that touched a chord and sprung this memory open like epiphany— Like sudden snowfall more brilliant than light, outlining the roofs, the streets, each lamp-post in town— And do we know, do we know what that is like, someone asked— such recklessness, such love? And how many will say they would burn for some glimmer, remote, unreachable, afar? The pillows are cold; the coverlet needs turning— But here we are, with our love of warmth, of touch, of what is kind— We close our eyes, we slip our muddy feet into the icy stream.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Pilgrimage.

Pilgrimage

for Yahia Lababidi

A star turns cold in an effort to cast a shadow. Or so they say.

A mayfly fresh out of the water, finding itself without functional mouthparts, molts one more time just to make sure.

The Chinese inventors of the compass weren’t travelers trying to make their way through the world, but gardeners & home decorators trying to make their world through the Way.

Her obsessive pursuit of stillness gives the dancer no rest.

While the others were saluting the flag, I saluted the wind.

Called

What I want is for you to read my lips, my eyes.
Curve of spine, spot on the small of the back

that has ached for days. Arch of instep, flex
of the foot; toes that lead the way, that always

lead the way as though they knew where on this earth
they were going. Hither, say the fingers curling

into the shapes of smoke. Hither,
I repeat. Hither, hither.

 

In response to small stone (179).

Before Genesis

This entry is part 16 of 22 in the series Alternate Histories

 

Just like mitochondria & cell nuclei, genitalia were once free-living organisms. They resembled hydrozoans: the penis a polyp & the vulva & vagina a medusa. They were, in other words, the same organism at different stages. Though it needed an anchorage, joined to its brother polyps by hollow roots, the primitive penis strained for more, combing the currents with a hungry cluster of tentacles. Eventually, a bud would sprout from its side, break free & open like an umbrella in all that water. So while the penis lived from hand to mouth, the vagina, arrayed in glory, neither toiled nor spun, & the music of its transparent bell spread through the oceans & inspired the coral to new architectural heights. And the god of evolution, swaying in the garden, saw that it was good.

Elegy, even after 22 years

This entry is part 35 of 41 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2012

 

My father, we did not know then it would be the last day of your life. But you struggled into your slippers and your bathrobe the warm, dusky-gold of corn; and you came and stood in the doorway, holding on to the wooden frame for ballast. How long did you stand there, more wispy than a plume of smoke, simply gazing over the rest of us huddled on two beds? We’d pushed them together, exhausted from going days without sleep through the aftershocks that rocked the city. The upright piano had moved to the far end of the living room. The china cabinet sounded crystal chimes as if from afar, but nearer than the drone of rescue helicopters fracturing the dark. No one dared to light candles for fear of setting the house on fire. No one dared to unfasten their shoes. I’ve written this over and over, composing and revising, revising and composing, trying to return to that elusive fold of time, those last few hours before your body stiffened and your eyes turned silver-grey, the color of a clear but frozen lake. Even as nurses tried to revive you where you lay on a pallet in the hospital wing, your spirit had started its journey. Out of that valley it rose, rising above earthquake ruins, rising higher than the limestone rocks; rising, still, as seasons changed and pools of sleeping fish warmed back to life.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

If not with me

“Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither…” ~ Job 1:21 (KJV)

Would you go? Would you go in my place? e-mailed a friend, having paid in advance months ago for a twelve-day trip she would not be able to take. Down the Rhine, from Bamberg, Wurzburg, Freudenberg, down to Koblenz and Cologne, finishing with three days in Amsterdam. I would have, but for various reasons couldn’t, can’t. So I said no. Oh don’t get me wrong— who wouldn’t leap at the chance? Everything paid for: all-inclusive of meals, wine and beverages— anytime, anywhere; the land excursions, the entrance fees to museums and castles, barring other side trips outside the itinerary once the ship docks at ports of call; cashless on the boat, no tipping allowed, gratuities pre-calculated into the cost. Do not inquire too closely into my reasons. O magnum mysterium. Only know that I find it difficult to revel in joy alone. Will you reconsider? she asked. There will be 3 balls: the welcome, the Captain’s farewell, the Christmas dinner ball; live music, open seating, a personal valet on the liner through the entire trip. Truly, I thanked her; and promised, perhaps someday.

 

In response to the cassandra pages: two world premieres.