I believe there's a vast, labyrinthine narrative concluding among the rolled yellow folds of the nation's fortune cookies. I believe the oceans are swelling, and Barcelona will one day be lost to the sea. Silver fish, sparked flint in the silver river. In sun, the sunburned skin sloughs off the sunburned shoulder. Most folks believe this is the body's slow mend. Most folks believe in the good yolk of the soul. I believe whales were exiled from the air, so their mournful, Byzantine songs resound over the Texarkana of ocean bottom. Eventually, in autopsy lingo, of natural causes will be replaced with of long-term exposure to the dim unwavering radiation of the morning star . The afternoon they bum your body, I step into the garden and arrange a crooked line of birdbaths, skipping stones until a bell tower tolls its eight arguments against daylight, and the skyline illuminates ragged and unmended, like a poem laid on its side. The evening they burn your body, I step into the living room believing I'll be greeted by you or by someone who could play you in a movie. Its curtains are an aurora of carnal proportion. You don't exist A flash igniting the paned glass is the silent lightning outrunning its noise. You're on fire.
JASWINDER BOLINA is author of Carrier Wave, winner of-the 2006 Colorado Prize for Poetry. His poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Laurel Review, and Cream City Review and are forthcoming from XCP, LUNA, and Colorado Review.
|Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback|
|Title Annotation:||two poems|
|Publication:||The American Poetry Review|
|Date:||Nov 1, 2008|
|Previous Article:||My Mother at Her Desk.|
|Next Article:||One Day, Androids Will Have Pudgy Arms and Hug Us Like Mother, But Still I'd Reach for You, Dear Reader, Which Is Why I Have So Much Faith in Us as a...|