Angie Werren
flightI want to photograph
a flock of tiny birds swooping simultaneously from bare-branch tree to swaying high wire I want to capture the surprise this sudden rise into air (an unexpected testimony of flight) but here now your face (and all the things that moved when you flew) a roll of film phantomeverything I’ve lost is here
the world inside this roll of film your child-face screams through each frame a crushing weight of birdsong in the air the world inside this roll of film these pink walls and old bedroom doors a crushing weight of birdsong in the air I close my eyes hoping it can fly away these pink walls and old bedroom doors this place is not where I want you to be I close my eyes hoping it can fly away I find a downy woodpecker — soft, on the sidewalk this place is not where I want you to be your child-face screams through each frame I find a downy woodpecker — soft, on the sidewalk everything I’ve lost is here Wake
she smokes like a chimney
she is brandishing an unfiltered cigarette we cross a bridge the coke-stink of this town hangs between us like a tombstone we pass the tobacco field a green infusion into a rural wasteland textured with steel and mountains stripped of coal there’s always snakes in the tobacco field (she says) I roll down the window the sun ekes through empty branches it breaks onto the slurping river glinting like rows of tires in a junkyard you know I told him to stop (she says) I told him she crushes the cigarette between her fingers I look at houses flying past like abandoned railcars boards on the doors gaping windows sad sagging roofs I really believe her this time I forget about the snakes (shiny black and thick as a tire) yeah (she says) there’s always snakes answer me.
am I dust to you?
am I ash? a gasp swirling in gravitational pull? (father) answer me. my face my arms a cloud of sloughed off cells am I blessed to you? (father) am I a pulse? a breath? am I? in this instant in this shared ride in this unbalanced slide into blue answer me. (when you slap me do you feel my wings?) |
the ground is still frozen
loving you is finding an empty
robin’s egg holding blue surprise like a heartbeat it is laughter slipping through fingers the shadow of faces and hands bending now this frozen ground reduces memory to sediment I don’t think we should have a funeral at all I watch the dog catch a moth its wings melt like sugar on her tongue unnecessary subjects
what is person 1’s age and what
is person 1’s date of birth I’m older than you know born in a year of your lord born in a year of my sorrow is this house apartment or mobile home occupied without payment of rent I live in cobwebs paid for with dry-rotted floorboards rented with the mold on these flood-damaged walls does person 1 sometimes live somewhere else someday I will abandon this place did this person work last week at what time did this person usually leave home sometimes I close my eyes how many of these rooms are bedrooms sometimes I breathe please print today’s date the stones in your belly
today we are
the same as we were yesterday we’re as heavy as the devil (you know) black as sin black as night black as pitch (we gather no moss) tomorrow we will be the same as we are today black as soot black as tar black as coal we’re as heavy as the devil (you don’t know) somewhere there are children skipping stones opossum
a dog is barking opinions. he is my ex-husband, waking neighbors. something rustles in the backyard, tips over a stack of empty clay pots. this night is in my head, feeling its way because there is no moon; there are no stars. I open the door and the opossum screams, frozen in guilt. light turns his black eyes to gold. his teeth, his pink tongue are fear and they writhe, they gnash. neither one of us moves. we feign, our dead tails curling like parasitic worms.
the night stands with its feet flat on the ground.
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