this is at last my will
a mouth full of tongue
the loaf of a wet sponge
and a nomenclature of fish
but to be certain of love
the girth of breath
to plumb its etchings
a meditation on feathers
beneath a barometer of branches
crows crumbled among twigs
huddled & preening
a new occupation
My struggling gaze fights to match your
perspicacious and perspicuous replies.
A language of crow's wings sputters
about his wolves' unknowing: no moons
embraced such a bald throat of wind
the day Aunt Barb stood to receive
tap water and fell fallow at your feet.
What thanks and who's giving can replicate
the planned travel I did not make
one week before she donated herself to science.
Intent and internet might loop these cuttings and floral spray
into poems or blankets or doilies or fetal positioning
but nothing undoes her refusal to love the life
she once saved and twice discarded.
'Amo ergo sum'
the leaf's breath promises a tomb
your memory jack-knifed on I-95
and this rig stole your fig; newton's
laws of gravity & motion underestimated
the shift of seedless green grapes
displaced upon each axle and what
rose from the sand wasn't an ocean
Lizzy Swane chooses to remain silent; exercising her write to atone, a turn or attenuation here or there, whether or not she can afford one, one night, one night's stand, oneness or otherness.
Anything said or heard, touched or felt, smelled or tasted, seen or envisioned may be used as evidence for a poem.
Should she choose to give up her write in exchange for one time publishing rights, she shall remain 'owner sans onerous' of all trials and travails endured by readers and jarred or juried peers.
Any questions about these writes may be rightly addressed to lizzyswane AT gmail DOT com.
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