I—the speaker
you—innumerable yous
a Mother (deceased)
Mable—who’s the she
Stead—who’s the father
Hank—who’s the brother
Q who—who’s the uncle
Mia—who’s the aunt (deceased)
And Mable when I say
comes from money I mean
comes from more money than me.
The doves see through Henri and know
his chompers were a ganga of battered
birches, stunted birches
the earth searches its muscle memory
for the sameness of frankincense and then dances.
We flame drench whosoever slept the sea
is how we spoke alike,
spoke of light spruces. Now sluice down
the nooses because lurk is by a window of medicine
or the end of this line, nightingales
in decline amidst a thicket. Let’s sing the sameness
of Mable.
I mean unstable
ingrate equals intellect and this too is myopic, hogshit, I wish
the internet was a book that couldn’t get—
anyway, what cured my
rickets is the gull light in eucalyptus
and the movies last Christmas. I miss this
crust of snow, a jumble of slow
hiccups. Our mothers lied to us
about the sound of sand and what happens
to sweet tea after its marrying.
Now it was always too dark out for the dead people
in Q’s El Camino. They misunderstood
sainthood, racket of redwood,
be a scattergood through our house. It’s 4 a.m., and the
molecules of dawn have gone shameless.
Boundless bundles of crazy aimless.
What this biopic needs
is new knees, glass dad, and ache of marriage, trach of marriage, cold blood, the violins in—
Well you know about Mia’s cracked teacup
when spring screams torrents at me meaning Mable
waits to shoot up
the weather with my money, who is happy and few sharp teeth, who is nothing
the glow stops and don’t know
about chompers, spokes of somber swept-through-body
likes-to-yell-at-kids. Cement when the moss invents again
is where we flame drench the world of flesh
and lurk is by a window softer than haunted heaven where mentholyptus
remains resplendent. Forever I hate when my house shakes
because the other white matter
is what matters when it comes to most glaciers, not the snow in her throat. She’s under the table,
I mean Mable,
now see-what-laughter, the shins is my daughter or sameness
of timber. There’s something the matter with brother.
This ain’t no pillow
disco
volcano
woe or sonorous desert
where I ate my insatiable
amidst a thicket
of stunted birches, battered birches,
every invisible word
for red birth, bog birth
the stunted earth. Your author begot naught
after Stead was layers of water, the nave built, everyone’s dad
is older than dirt. Naturally, I provoke men with questions again
in the days of defective echolocation, our cumbersome shuffle
which is all the work
your legs love. We are total flesh
see hailstone or Bechdel test.
Now our Mable who art in mountains,
shiver rifts thy sky
while I aid and abet impressive
pheasants, all the alpine adolescents
with crepuscular eucalyptus
in their endless, meaningless, grass tusks of bride sweet,
that broke fucking. Unfolding wasp
-swung, star
-strung,
shrank the village to the bed we in
when rain begins.
Struggles a streetlight,
the wind against groaning.
Meanwhile our heartbeats shook the dead
of flame-drenched and older than
sameness, gardens upon gardens of night-dress.
Nevertheless, an hourglass and invisible death
left Mable’s throat a sugarcoat,
the moral lass
by hive then once cried when the
glow stopped, all the gravel-pile snow-sopped
mountains of memory, the middle class.
What we have here is a money problem,
our gold-spangled chompers at dawn
are gone, the migraine dark,
and the right word for woods is where when you need it?
Oh forest florists, forest floor it’s
only good for collecting water. I miss my mother
and that’s the matter with me and the hammer of featherhood,
fathered in soot. The dog dies although I sometimes walk her,
and Mable’s mouth remains marble-heavy and authored.
Because you were drunk and the dog was crying,
it was naturally night getting overly astonished again
as the Noh falls so-so ago, although
blue petals splinter an ingrown bone, we rose them alone, rows them all home.
And that’s what’s the matter with me and our other mother and father
according to whom, feathered in soot,
suits bloodstone, see helio, and woe
to those who froze feathers,
bundled and left-my-breasts-relentless.
Or rustless.
Or restless.
Or rent-less, as if
my authentic thighs dement this sky
-writing until cauterized with cumbersome letters.
Below bellweather, my dear’s in the dirt, drizz boys reverse
chambers. Thou art aching in stranger, unshuckable
spokes of light. Much get sleep didn’t I last night.
–––––––
Sally Rodgers is a sudden rush (out) from a besieged place upon the enemy; a sortie; esp. in the phrase to make a sally; Sally Rodgers is the first movement of a bell when ‘set’ for ringing; a ‘handstroke,’ as distinguished from the reverse movement of ‘backstroke;’ also, the position of a bell when it is rung up to; Sally Rodgers is a corruption of sal enixum; she is one of several eucalyptus or acacias, she resembles willows in habit or appearance; Sally is to leap, bound, dance; she is of a warlike force: to issue suddenly from a place of defense or retreat in order to make an attack; Sally Rodgers is to bring (a bell) to the position of ‘sally.’ Sally Rodgers is both a noun and a verb.