this kind of flying this kind of flying is performed by the clip-winged love bird-- this kind of flying is caught by the butterfly nets of angels--fishing for our souls in the clouds-- when i die i want to leave my body in a library-- on a shelf full of books no one has checked out for years-- save me there in the flyleaf pages-- yellowing from the faint hush of sun in the window-- when i couldn't sleep my father filled a beer bottle with stars just for me-- he dismantled constellations-- he taught the moon to swarm me like a cloud of gnats-- this type of flying is achieved slowly & then all at once-- this kind of flying lifts your bed frame from the earth-- soars above a city you've never been to-- Paris-- San Francisco-- Seattle-- Atlanta-- you mistake the lights for stars-- mistake the people for angels searching for their wings by street light-- night rains & you mistake the rain for the melting of the solar system above you-- above you around you-- this kind of flying sold it's wings for a jar of quarters to bury in the backyard beneath the evergreen tree-- this kind of flying is a kind of falling a kind of falling faster & faster until you hit the water-- land in atlanic ocean next to the fragments of space shuttles before you this kind of flying tells you to step out of you body-- leave it home to sleep feel the breathe of wind in the turn of white pages-- number your hips so they know where to find you-- write the index on the back-- they'll find your dog ear-ed pages-- they know what words you hold closest to you they know what words you keep in your father's beer bottles-- teach a word to beam & hear it become a star-- smack it's head on your lamp like a moth-- turn off the sun-- the moon-- open your window-- let it fly off on it's own to rhyme in someone else's body this kind of flying is a kind of falling-- your bed frame losing its will somewhere above the open ocean--
Uncategorized
10/18
message in a bottle laying here i think about how each night is a small death-- i roll the memory & place it carefully in one of my father's green beer bottles-- they wander aimlessly on the porch-- clatter on the pavement when there's a gust of wind & this night shoreline comes crashing at the back screen door again-- hinge whining open-- i drop what was left of me lingering in this night-- send him off in the glass hull of his father's bottle-- i float face up-- drink salt water dreams & god sitting at his desk writes draft after draft of my life-- sending them down as paper airplanes to sink in the water-- i say to myself that in the morning i will wake up in someone else's hands-- unfurling me-- reading me like a hymnal-- singing what's left of me from the night before-- i'll tell you i had a marvelous dream-- as vast as the water lapping at the back porch-- love me like you would a hinge-- take my wrists like door knobs-- i'll tell you i had a marvelous dream only i remember none of it-- you were there-- reading me-- my body as always a message pulled from a green beer bottle-- i had gone somewhere without going & when the ocean is dry & our bottles smashed on the sidewalk-- we will wake up abruptly to the sensation of sinking in each other & god with his quill pen will laugh & neglect to write us an ending each night each night a small small death
10/17
paper machete moon clumsy as i am-- i dropped the moon from the sky & it shattered on red tile kitchen floor-- we'll be wearing shoes in here for awhile-- come with me-- let's walk along shoreline made of broken green bear bottles-- the shards click as the tide pulls in & out like a great loom weaving us full of water-- hold my hand i want to balance on the rocks-- i want to stand on my tip-toes-- i can almost reach the top shelf where our mother set the moon-- gold rimmed & glistening a halo-- the only saint i ever believed in was her-- my mother with a picture book of the saints in her lap-- tell me a story about the girl who put the moon back together-- a martyr without a head-- my father sweeps the kitchen floor-- pulls a sliver of glass out of my bare foot-- we drop ourselves from great heights-- here-- me & you-- let's make a paper machete moon so the night sky isn't so lonely & the water isn't so misguided without the weaver-- dip strips of newspaper in the sea water-- i'll blow up a birthday balloon from the top drawer in the kitchen-- we'll make it like a piñata-- layer after layer of newsprint strips oh listen to me-- don't read the headlines-- POLICE ARREST 5 TRUMP CALLS ASSAULT ALLEGATIONS FAKE PLAGUE OUTBREAK IN MADAGASCAR ISIS MILITANTS SURRENDER TO KURDS i told you not to read the headlines-- we're safe here you know? we're safe here while we make this paper machete moon-- paint white over the breaking news-- we've broken enough today-- hold my waist while i sit the new moon up there to dry in the heat of the stars-- god's little christmas lights-- he doesn't have the energy to take them down off his porch so they linger year-round sighing as they watch their reflections black ocean sewing itself into the sand--
10/16
cloud cartography i've always thought of myself as a map maker-- charting shoreline-- giving islands their silhouettes-- i see myself-- pen & ink over a scroll of paper-- sextant measuring cliff contours-- the small of her back-- a grotto-- i'd conjure sea monsters in the four corners of my maps-- the kraken with his tentacles thrashing-- gripping the hem of capes-- our bays are full of sirens-- yes the life of a map maker would be thrilling but i think if i were to pick another profession i would taken to mapping the clouds-- they're uncharted-- un-tethered-- i would take my scroll & lay on my back-- the map would of course never be finished-- hour by hour as the clouds moved i would erase their lines-- i would give them new names-- today the peaks of Saint Celphalophore carry their own heads-- these martyrs-- breaking collasping into new bodies-- the clouds don't hold onto each other-- the sky is full of krakens-- & the best part would be that i would never need to be done-- no one would be there when the sun went down to check & see if i had been productive that day-- i would simply hold up my blank slice of parchment-- the tracks of clouds erased & drawn over & over-- another day another cumulonimbus to name-- another mountain born from mist-- roaming over the sky-- as dusk dropped around me each night like a great knitted shawl i would pray to the clouds whose skeletons i came to know so well-- i'd laugh with them & ask -- will you ever ever ever hold still for me?
10/15
flip phone i don't know where my first cell phone is-- somewhere she stumbles--buried under half-finish drawings & grade school report cards beneath my bunk bed at my parent's house-- she dangles her charger chord-- a long rat tail etching tracks in sand-- the desert is cold at night-- the moon is made from lantern flies who disperse at the snap of a twig-- there's only willow trees-- each dropping paper clips-- there she curls up with herself & pages through my words again-- all the same as i had left them-- i'll be five more minutes & lol & thnx & goodbye & goodnight & i love you & i love you so so so much-- she falls into camera roll-- she watches me lilt from picture to picture-- pushes a strand of brown hair away from the face of a fourteen year old girl in search of a body-- in search of a mirror to crawl into-- there i am-- thin as a paper clip-- held together by a phone chord-- she kisses each image-- she wants that girl to come home to her-- to press her thumbs on her key pad-- write letters into night sky-- text constellations-- in the depths of her body she keeps these handfuls of photographs-- stacks them up-- shuffles images again & again-- puts her ear to empty receiver as if someone-- anyone might be calling-- my voice mail hey this is sarah-- i guess i can't the phone so leave a message after the beep BEEEEP & she wants to leave a message but she doesn't know what to say so she just folds herself-- hold on tight to reverberations of my voice as they echo in her torso-- she yearns so much to listen--
10/14
the art of making a river all life originated from the green coiled garden hose-- entwined around itself on the porch-- a snake-- loops gushing with clear blood-- inside the hose held all of our skipped stones off the bottom of the creek-- fish hooks & bobbers-- my silver claddagh ring lost down some drain-- emptied to the ocean & back to the garden hose-- billy & i cranked the grey knob to turn on the water-- it squealed & squealed-- like a newborn song bird-- all pink-necked & screaming for flight-- screaming for loam & clay-- we laid the hose there & let water spill down the black asphalt driveway-- naturally the trickle separated into little strands of river-- the ganges the nile-- the hudson-- seine & ephrates-- each one thrumming with the anxious bodies of fish-- each one full of skipped stones-- each one whose river bank held our bare feet-- i remember being scared to turn off the hose-- knowing these rivers would stop-- i had been so proud of their private rush for my brother & i there-- we small skinned-knee gods-- hunched over & watching man learn how to fish-- learn how to walk on water-- learn how to send their dead down the river-- decorated in flowers-- marigold & rose-- the floating lantern lights are mistaken for stars-- dad would come out & warn billy & i about the water bill-- the price we all pay for being a god-- & the rivers would run dry-- the great drought-- fish flopping on the pavement-- the world's rivers trickling into grass-- we small bare foot gods were left to watch the sun suck them dry
10/13
explorer let's go & find the 8th continent-- i said standing on the jungle gym-- recess was meant for explorers like us-- this was after mrs. petrie pinned the great map of the earth to the chalk board of our 4th grade classroom-- she pointed to the vast hunks of land-- north america south america africa europe asia austrailia antartica i asked her where the islands go-- what continent they belong on & she said whichever one is closest & i didn't believe her-- i imagined them roaming all on their own-- we learned about pangea & how god broke us like bread-- this is my body & in memory of him-- in memory of that initial break men took to the seas in wooden ships-- those vessels who whined & moaned like the torso of the dead oak tree in the playground-- amerigo vespucci sitting in my textbook wearing his floppy beret-- ferdinand magellan scraggly black bread-- leif erikson who mrs. petrie said was here before columbus they stared into me-- planted flags in me-- another claim for portugal-- for spain-- for the holy empires-- i asked mrs. petrie why no one had discovered these huge fragments of bread before a handful of oddly dressed men she said that no one had been looking-- that everyone had been too busy to be explorers-- i say this as the closest thing i can offer to an apology-- this my body he said-- as another european flag stuck in a rib cage-- the water beneath the deck is red-- still red-- their eyes floating on the surface of my 4th grade text book watching-- waiting for the fingers of children to page past them-- the names of native peoples were not part of our history book not mayans or aztecas or incas or cherokees or lakota or sioux or quechan i ask you if you want to go come with me to discover the 8th continent from mulch-- from oak tree shade-- from hopscotch squares-- it can be our pangea-- break this body with me there is no starting over-- there is no apology for this i'm docking a wooden ship to a land with no soil-- they told me to be an explorer-- to dive beneath the ocean & resurrect stones we dropped down deep in the throats of the waves let's break this is my body
10/12
giants i cracked the window backseat of the blue station wagon-- our car was always climbing another highway-- another rush of wind through my shoulder-length brown hair-- i used to watch the landscape unfurl like a pop-up book before me-- page turn page turn page turn-- a film reel spinning-- projected around me in this great IMAX theater a pinwheel-- shimmering in the vibrations of the world out a car window-- & on the mountain ridges i would see the towers where all the powerlines meet & i would think that they looked like giants-- immense beasts of steal-- their skeletal frames letting the air rush through them-- they danced-- jump ropes in hand-- great oaks & evergreens brushing their knees like tall tall grass i used to run in when i was too little to be scared of ticks-- i imagined them at night when there's no more need for power- lines that maybe these giants rushed off over the crest of the peaks-- hand in hand-- singing songs only giants know in a voice made of metal & bird throat-- there they would tell stories of all that they had seen that day-- a nest of chickadees-- a hiker's hat blow off & drop into the creek-- a bike-rider with a green back pack eating a banana on a tree stump-- a little girl gazing out the window of a blue station wagon-- they would light a bond fire-- pluck the stars from the sky like ripe raspberries-- scoop marshmallows from the moon & roast them golden brown over the fire-- their shadows in the light of the flames would take on a mind of their own-- skeletons frolicking across the shrugged shoulders of the ridge-- in the blush of morning the shadows would fade-- as all ghosts do-- back under the bellies of the stones in the creek-- the sun came with a thud-- a peach too heavy for the branch & begrudgingly the giants would slink back to their posts-- wires in hand-- watching a blue station wagon pass by
10/11
we keep our closets i save mine in a locket around my neck-- keep the keys beneath my tongue-- this is the place where my body echos like the whisper of all the earth's water in the corridor of a conch shell placed to the ear of an eleven year old girl who was also me-- i open the door to fall into the ocean-- splash & float on my back-- here is where i grab handfuls of laughter-- stuff my pockets with sun-- the four walls of this closet reverberate with refractions of mornings-- of my own voice-- the sky pulls a rainbow through her belt loops-- oh & then my closet grows lush when i was little & i sat in the bathtub with the shower head running i would pretend i was naked in the rain forest the ceiba trees & cathedral figs wrappings their roots around my thighs-- i feel each droplet gambol over my chest-- my legs-- drip from my branches-- the biggest apples grow on the lowest branches so i can reach-- i eat every single one of them & the door knob teases me & calls me EVE i've captured clouds to remember how to weep with every part of myself until i drop my small leaves like the willow on the hill with the gravel path behind my parent's house-- a dog barks in the distance-- i see a dress in goodwill & i know a girl who would have worn it-- she is brave & she keeps a locket around her neck-- i live in the closet doors of her body-- her mouth-- the hinges of her fingernails-- i am so in love with her-- with her eyes that hold rubber trees-- her feet dusted with sand-- she threads the rainbow through her belt loops-- i put the dress on a hanger-- float in the ocean behind this door it is mine it is mine it is mine
10/10
hubble last night in my body i wanted to feel smaller-- i felt the edges of my skin expanding-- my freckles drifting into the night sky-- i clung onto each & asked them to resist becoming stars last night in my body i borrowed the eyes of the hubble space telescope & i thought about all the awe she has known & how she feels about the body she captures images of-- NGC6753 the second known spiral galaxy whirling like a shiny pinwheel out the window of my father's jeep as we drove through the corn fields-- the center-- the corona they say it will tell them something about how galaxies form even though the light she captures is thousands & thousands of light years away i wonder what it's like for her to listen to these memories of light-- the pirouette of celestial bodies some dead some dying some remembering themselves-- when she watches a star burst does she sing happy birthday? does she want to hold the little burst of life hold to her chest? i think if i were the hubble space telescope i would want to avert my eyes-- i would want to leave the infant stars & galaxies to bask in the infinite heat of their births but instead she grabs picture after picture for the men on earth-- drops them like postcards-- she tells the men to be gentle with the images-- that these are bodies are so much like their own i wonder how many spiral galaxies i contain tongiht or what it would be like to be able to twirl like one oh NGC6753-- i will only ever know you though this stream of photographs-- your corona a blaze-- your dress burning with stars-- & the hubble space telescope up there tonight she will want to feel smaller-- she will think of all the nebulas-- the sun spots-- the gaseous fascade of jupiter-- & she will wish more than anything to feel her feet touch earth-- soil or rock beneath her to hold her-- her body out of orbits-- here in my room i am held by carpet-- i share her eyes a star is born four thousand light years ago
Robin Gow 