Poetry
FOLLY
Swarm
Nick Flynn
When you see us swarm — rustle of
wingbeat, collapsed air — your mind
tries to make us one, a common
intelligence, a single spirit un-
tethered. You imagine us merely
searching out the next
vessel, anything
that could contain us, as if the hive
were just another jar. You try
to hold the ending, this
unspooling, make it either
zero or many, lack
or flurry. I was born,
you begin, & already each word
makes you smaller. Look at this field —
Cosmos. Lungwort. Utter each
& break
into a thousand versions of yourself.
You can't tell your stories fast enough.
The answer is not one, but also
not two.
Nick Flynn
When you see us swarm — rustle of
wingbeat, collapsed air — your mind
tries to make us one, a common
intelligence, a single spirit un-
tethered. You imagine us merely
searching out the next
vessel, anything
that could contain us, as if the hive
were just another jar. You try
to hold the ending, this
unspooling, make it either
zero or many, lack
or flurry. I was born,
you begin, & already each word
makes you smaller. Look at this field —
Cosmos. Lungwort. Utter each
& break
into a thousand versions of yourself.
You can't tell your stories fast enough.
The answer is not one, but also
not two.
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Three Love Songs
Asya Graf
1.
All this happiness came to me at once
or I to it – your blood whirred in my ears
mortar to my breach.
Adust with noon the road smolders.
I am no longer adumbral,
resting in the shade of the olive tree,
adjured, shorn, inhabited.
I am full of grace, void
of that finer substance.
I am like those hazel trees
slow to blossom, drunk on darkness
at the root – should you rescind my sap
I would still serve as kindling, mineral
grist in your mill, sidereal signage
2.
All this happiness came to me at once.
Sidereal adumbrations, scorpions'
tails zigzag in the dust.
I read the signs as mercy,
your smile a message.
Adust with noon, the stones steam.
I rise in their descent, forsaking
lessons, cycles, biology.
I am above the flesh.
I stand as stone against the tide,
braced for infinite advance,
reaved from within, a geode
waiting for the jeweler's blade
3.
All this happiness came to me at once –
the thorn plucked from my flank,
blood washing its own wounds. Let me rub oil
between my palms and grasping slip
my hold upon your coraled flesh. We are
an element of grammar – You,
I straining to drain, bleach, purge, reave
itself from its own center. Coral shales
lace your ribs, lacerate my palms. I
am riveted to the pursuit, thirsty
for my own blood, the coral stained
for the reliquary's cool storage.
Asya Graf
1.
All this happiness came to me at once
or I to it – your blood whirred in my ears
mortar to my breach.
Adust with noon the road smolders.
I am no longer adumbral,
resting in the shade of the olive tree,
adjured, shorn, inhabited.
I am full of grace, void
of that finer substance.
I am like those hazel trees
slow to blossom, drunk on darkness
at the root – should you rescind my sap
I would still serve as kindling, mineral
grist in your mill, sidereal signage
2.
All this happiness came to me at once.
Sidereal adumbrations, scorpions'
tails zigzag in the dust.
I read the signs as mercy,
your smile a message.
Adust with noon, the stones steam.
I rise in their descent, forsaking
lessons, cycles, biology.
I am above the flesh.
I stand as stone against the tide,
braced for infinite advance,
reaved from within, a geode
waiting for the jeweler's blade
3.
All this happiness came to me at once –
the thorn plucked from my flank,
blood washing its own wounds. Let me rub oil
between my palms and grasping slip
my hold upon your coraled flesh. We are
an element of grammar – You,
I straining to drain, bleach, purge, reave
itself from its own center. Coral shales
lace your ribs, lacerate my palms. I
am riveted to the pursuit, thirsty
for my own blood, the coral stained
for the reliquary's cool storage.
Variation Bearing a Theme on Self-Portrait
Natalie Eilbert
As long as the birds fly dumbward, fly at all,
don’t speak of the blind mouths or the horses
or the what-have-yous making this small room
small. As long as the birds leave their keep
in a tweed coat, a velvet lap somewhere, there’s
room still. It’s possible to follow gallops of blue edge
down an avenue, come to a clearing,
every branch a verge of hawks. In all this,
land vaults, exists penultimate; I’ve left myself
a bruise in the snow, all short of an old hound’s
pant, eased of its breaking body. Speak nothing but
the pathological drift of mules, when the world
stalked my scent under its hooves and I could say
Ever won’t find me here. You made remainder my only eyes.
Natalie Eilbert
As long as the birds fly dumbward, fly at all,
don’t speak of the blind mouths or the horses
or the what-have-yous making this small room
small. As long as the birds leave their keep
in a tweed coat, a velvet lap somewhere, there’s
room still. It’s possible to follow gallops of blue edge
down an avenue, come to a clearing,
every branch a verge of hawks. In all this,
land vaults, exists penultimate; I’ve left myself
a bruise in the snow, all short of an old hound’s
pant, eased of its breaking body. Speak nothing but
the pathological drift of mules, when the world
stalked my scent under its hooves and I could say
Ever won’t find me here. You made remainder my only eyes.