Beauty Supplied Somewhere Near Ritchie County, West Virginia; Companion Calls; Dream of a Pencil
i.
In ads for medical wigs the hair looks real,
the faces look like faces of mannequins.
i.
In ads for medical wigs the hair looks real,
the faces look like faces of mannequins.
Even this fire, you say. Even your shoes
are falling apart. See the soles giving a bit
to the heat. Through smoke, your face seems
unlikely, your hair in impossible knots. Inside,
They say she was doll glass, then ghost
glass, a rinsed object that bends
into its own deboning. Her mouth
stitched with rain, wrangling a wet
tone in a shipwrecked room. Her body
& God sends a colt. The colt’s mane flows
like a river as it gallops wild through acres
of grassland. & then God commands: build
a saddle, toughen the leathers & smith the stirrups
All night the Luna Moth had circled the flickering
street light as if it were paying homage
to its own brief flash of life
while above, the moon itself seemed to waver
The first cop on scene says
what a strange song to play while driving.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah…
In the palms of orange poppies
the fat bodies of bumblebees are in ecstasy.
and the fires are beyond us
the project’s conclusion
I’m not sure what to do about the deer
who have suddenly emerged around us.
Sometimes they cry, he says, staring
out the bay window. At first I think
he means my brother and me, that
he’s talking to our dead mother,
A child cries out for oranges hungers only for oranges
eats careless of juice careless of body
As for others, maybe they, too, sense an
outline taking shape—to their days, to their
minds—something glimpsed while waiting
The drive starts early,
before there’s time to cry
about the house we’re leaving
empty. Early, when the daylight
has the crystal clarity of dew.
“‘Any pregnancies?’ The ultrasound tech asked with her blue-scrubbed back to me.”
“My daughter balances herself against the cracked-vinyl-covered chair and wraps her fingers around the chrome leg of our kitchen table.”
“I was withering in the suburban dead space between New York City and Philadelphia when I first learned of the wild woman archetype, courtesy of Clarissa Pinkola Estes’s Women Who Run With the Wolves.”
My friend had only weeks to livewhen we video-chatted the last time.Yet she kept having morning coffee with friends. O, still vivid as light,her contagious
i.
In ads for medical wigs the hair looks real,
the faces look like faces of mannequins.
Even this fire, you say. Even your shoes
are falling apart. See the soles giving a bit
to the heat. Through smoke, your face seems
unlikely, your hair in impossible knots. Inside,
They say she was doll glass, then ghost
glass, a rinsed object that bends
into its own deboning. Her mouth
stitched with rain, wrangling a wet
tone in a shipwrecked room. Her body
& God sends a colt. The colt’s mane flows
like a river as it gallops wild through acres
of grassland. & then God commands: build
a saddle, toughen the leathers & smith the stirrups
All night the Luna Moth had circled the flickering
street light as if it were paying homage
to its own brief flash of life
while above, the moon itself seemed to waver
The first cop on scene says
what a strange song to play while driving.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah…
In the palms of orange poppies
the fat bodies of bumblebees are in ecstasy.
and the fires are beyond us
the project’s conclusion
I’m not sure what to do about the deer
who have suddenly emerged around us.
Sometimes they cry, he says, staring
out the bay window. At first I think
he means my brother and me, that
he’s talking to our dead mother,
A child cries out for oranges hungers only for oranges
eats careless of juice careless of body
As for others, maybe they, too, sense an
outline taking shape—to their days, to their
minds—something glimpsed while waiting
The drive starts early,
before there’s time to cry
about the house we’re leaving
empty. Early, when the daylight
has the crystal clarity of dew.
“‘Any pregnancies?’ The ultrasound tech asked with her blue-scrubbed back to me.”
“My daughter balances herself against the cracked-vinyl-covered chair and wraps her fingers around the chrome leg of our kitchen table.”
“I was withering in the suburban dead space between New York City and Philadelphia when I first learned of the wild woman archetype, courtesy of Clarissa Pinkola Estes’s Women Who Run With the Wolves.”
My friend had only weeks to livewhen we video-chatted the last time.Yet she kept having morning coffee with friends. O, still vivid as light,her contagious
i.
In ads for medical wigs the hair looks real,
the faces look like faces of mannequins.
Even this fire, you say. Even your shoes
are falling apart. See the soles giving a bit
to the heat. Through smoke, your face seems
unlikely, your hair in impossible knots. Inside,
They say she was doll glass, then ghost
glass, a rinsed object that bends
into its own deboning. Her mouth
stitched with rain, wrangling a wet
tone in a shipwrecked room. Her body
& God sends a colt. The colt’s mane flows
like a river as it gallops wild through acres
of grassland. & then God commands: build
a saddle, toughen the leathers & smith the stirrups
All night the Luna Moth had circled the flickering
street light as if it were paying homage
to its own brief flash of life
while above, the moon itself seemed to waver
The first cop on scene says
what a strange song to play while driving.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah…
In the palms of orange poppies
the fat bodies of bumblebees are in ecstasy.
and the fires are beyond us
the project’s conclusion
I’m not sure what to do about the deer
who have suddenly emerged around us.
Sometimes they cry, he says, staring
out the bay window. At first I think
he means my brother and me, that
he’s talking to our dead mother,
A child cries out for oranges hungers only for oranges
eats careless of juice careless of body
As for others, maybe they, too, sense an
outline taking shape—to their days, to their
minds—something glimpsed while waiting
The drive starts early,
before there’s time to cry
about the house we’re leaving
empty. Early, when the daylight
has the crystal clarity of dew.
“‘Any pregnancies?’ The ultrasound tech asked with her blue-scrubbed back to me.”
“My daughter balances herself against the cracked-vinyl-covered chair and wraps her fingers around the chrome leg of our kitchen table.”
“I was withering in the suburban dead space between New York City and Philadelphia when I first learned of the wild woman archetype, courtesy of Clarissa Pinkola Estes’s Women Who Run With the Wolves.”
My friend had only weeks to livewhen we video-chatted the last time.Yet she kept having morning coffee with friends. O, still vivid as light,her contagious
