Tag: abstract

mortal

Stephanie McManusLeave a comment

like a cobra floats above its own gravity to give a poison—to threaten with swaying—being between thresholds or some,

gentle as a cloud will rise when there is no warmth and so wanting nothing—hold truth like wet sand cradles a jellyfish, letting it roll a little in the tide—like this, more immune to pain like the stars and their dust were that

left rivers in a thumb once, swirling too hotly—and i spin, too, leaving no evidence though i feel like fire—just elastic—same a cloud grows too heavy but always ready to let go, falls

somewhere lighter when the warmth is just enough—

and being of the world and of the stars both, a person leaves no indelible mark—even when like a thunderstorm, breaks— pushing orange leaves from branches and

lets the new leaves in—or with a light rain keeps little faces from withering—to just feel the wind for a time—the gravity that let form its own dream—i dream and wonder if it wonders, too.

immunity

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what makes my rhythm—maybe
the way of poison, a bright

color against
the whites and grays

like living by once

how deep sunk the hand
in my head when loved

young and impressed or

how blue the sky bled
aside the clouds and so

stared into an emptiness—are
my notes sharp now on the fall

because i have loved
broken things too much

that love hard or are an absence

and prefer the rain that informs
where a self begins and that of others

must end, not the fuzzy line

mind a cloud and the
blue everywhere—not my self

so tricky
when it is familiar—
an emptiness that allows

things to pass through
like—who i am—same

a cloud pushes the edges
of the sky in shifting.

i dance on the flats,
the way back up

a stumbling, happy song

wanting to stay with
old friends and the ones

i said i would love, and not forget

how mom would only pat
me on the back but never

hugged in private though
she craved me

never like her father craved her
shrinking—she loved her child, same

my friend sung in the driver’s seat
going nowhere loved nowhere

and chose it, she tried to
choose. and like my

father’s books—his
very eyes a tunnel for me
that held the exit—i am

unwilling to be at mercy but
full with it, shifting through
empty spaces that will

push—this very rhythm,
an antidote.

dry air

Stephanie McManusLeave a comment

low chance of rain—the
breeze of heat, heavy

a poppy will lose strength
begin to curl at the stomach

clumps of red, falling—wind
that carries desert sand

arriving and

the swing sparks grass
dry and brown like
flickering stars

wherever hope keeps knocking
with every failed attempt.

the stem that carries the weight—
letting it go—colliding with the dead

again—rising
before the fire catches

on something as dry and wild
as itself—and sometimes

aground for days
once petals fall and the skin, thick

is harder to love.

the bending stem curled
in surrender and

all the pretty poppy seeds made

ice-numb and dreaming—
a summer storm could fell

hold close to the ground
especially now.

wait for spring, for
easy, red petals, the

clouds will fill and touch
every spot—how

their shape is a truth,
maybe a ship

or your friend not lost
but right there, remembered

like the indestructible heat in
memory, too or a poppy’s
most, heavy head

and the sparks and
their immortality.