that what is frozen roars for eternity (and that’s too much for us) while gashes in our wrists will bleed ceaseless, fluttering crimson ribbons.
He surfaced in our Moment of Greatest Need, taking one of our soft hands in both of His, holding low branches aside, pointing out a thick root to step over
and with Him as slow, tedious guide we’ve crossed this forest ever since, far too obedient to ask where it ends but in silence
wondering, might that roar have been more bearable than we thought? Could we not try that place, one more time? There at least
Death cannot be so much as grasped
amid its din.
Elizabeth Bolton is a poet, writer and PhD student at the University of Toronto where she studies writing and the brain. She grew up in northern California and earned her Bachelor's degree from U.C. Berkeley. Her poetry has appeared in NoD Magazine and the Miracle Monocle, and her fiction is included in a forthcoming anthology of experimental fiction published by New Urge Books.
the patterns do not change __ __ __ __
they are misremembered __ __ __ __
cool hand __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
separate heat __ __ __ __ __ __
Be gentle don’t bump it I’ve got Andromeda centered
In the viewfinder but it will already have shifted slightly
Gliding its trillion stars and their moons in millimeters
Behind the local legends painted ancient on the dome
but ask me again how much
I care about the other mouths
that could call my name.
We’d get home, and he’d go back to weaseling money out of Mom
and squandering it on things that were smokable or fit in a syringe,
on what wasn’t bread. The little money he made came from
selling our family’s things: Mom’s jewelry, TV and VCR
swallows actin’ drunk
swimmin’ overhead
chasin’ each other ‘round
like brand new lovers
stumblin’ out the bar at 2 am
I command subjects, turn math to English, history
to lunch, govern teachers and students alike in
my slow crawl through middle and high school
periods.
We are all God’s little playthings. Or else why are we on a ball.
I had the goods,
the lowdown, the skinny,
the whole truth
and nothing but.
I was dangerously
in the know.
If you listen, really listen, their voices come back.
They start to tell you about places you’ve
never been, about things you want with
a ferocity that scares you sometimes. They make
sense. Sit with them on the couch and watch
a movie you know is bad.
Only connect
indeed. Dressed and buckled in
like chefs or psychiatric patients,
they shuffle and lunge.