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Monday, April 9, 2018


I had to live with—. When you died I cut your poem out of the issue
featuring the naked president. You would have been appalled, are

appalled. Hair Sorceress, in whose velvet band does your mane bind
and where is it, where? After the incident, it was you who took my hand

down to the dean to report the crime. After the incident, you nodded
with me as I wept to a man that I couldn’t. I have considered

which line of yours to tattoo and I have boiled it down to two. What 
is a line but a soft lie, what if I extended this poem to include the moor

I never moored, the false thunder of violet blooms, or how yesterday
I told an audience that imagery at its purest comes from the adolescent

consciousness, the girl who lay in the grass too consumed with grief
to know what even grief was. Grass has always been my interstitial medium

that which was never electable, that which dies if not flattens from the
blunt weight of us. In a field I waited for the boys to approach. I knew

they would lift me and drop me, swing me by an arm and a leg, because
I was so quick to scream for help. Early, I learned about punishment: a

bruise forms with or without such blunt weight. But I placed it in my
carrier bag, a sac filled with other purple inventory. I didn’t know to what

or whom I took these things. When the student tells me now he would
give everything in life in service of the poem, I agree the line is a lapse 

of joy and say I would die for it. Say in the moors I would die for it. Say
in the field in the grass in the white foam of your wildness I would die for it.

1 comment:

Radish King said...

is a line but a soft lie

is where this poem lifted me and spun me in the air all the way through.
Thank you!