Euphony

 

 

The pads of fingers kiss and synchronize with gravel tunes

and smooth notes, quick meter

and bounce

snap

baby, do you wanna dance?

 

Pointed nails trace lines and lyrics

and engrave them onto the nape of your neck

and mama tells you

she is sad

 

Violet violas play

as we lift up up and up

conducting with our pinkies

I see, I feel, I hear

light

 

She prays in spanish

clasps a golden cross

between her interlaced palms

She is thanking through furrowed brows

and speaks singsong

 

I complain about his knuckles,

swollen from beating his drum, punching bags, and cold faces

he replies in clops of drunken laughter

and blue bellows

 

 

 

Up

 

 

She climbed sedentary cement-levels

escalating through the house-front hole

lined with photosynthesizing unflowers

 

Fractured letter-post read “Thank you for caring”

iron-oxidized, corrosive

gnarly-hydroburnt

burnt

burn

 

She witnessed

dissociating benumb-white chill

idiosyncratic beads of saltsnow

both on the pavement and brimming the see-spheres of aunts and cousins

 

Inside smelled of coy co-chemicals

snuffed by undulating back-noise

gentle upcurved liplines that were quasi-fermented or rather,

rotten

 

Down the intra-footfalls

was light

and a casket

 

She imagined the lower person-place beamed boisterosity

saw his palms permeate pendulumic light

heard kinder loud-letter words

soft-spoke organic condolences

 

Still she remained at the uplevel

in troposphere of precipitated cumulus

not daring to dive

 

Up was unheavy

 

And there were finches

caged in encumbered plexi-clear

dipped in wavelength wing trails

crests and troughs hyper-reciprocated

always resurfacing

An Ode

 

 

A child

Deserving innocence

And undulating imagination

She knows nothing real

she will learn nothing physical

 

Mass renders gravity

And wakes

and crumpled cars

and broken bones and the first days of school; the world-rules

They only procure see-sphere tears

and foggy eye-ozone

 

My child

How her heart dilates

and her pupils pulsate-pump

In wonder and novel maturity

She sheds her adolescent hubris

Embalmed in adulthood rigor

 

She sprints through the increments

Exclaiming, “This year I will be brave and dance and I will be temerarious and wily

and I will be incisive and subdued and reluctantly phlegmatic

and I will be sometimes blue

 

I will learn about anti-motion emotion and I will master tardiness and I will gain

a few seething pimples, but of course, never pop them

I will quote Sophocles and misspell Oedipus Rex, and I will reinvent the alphabet,

eliminating the sequence ‘ine’ because it stifles round vowels and

breath

 

And I will be an un-childish”

 

Our un-child,

How she lives our love