Lampshade, Basket, Discarded Poem Drafts: photograph of assemblage w/digital collage elements. Celeste Goyer
My father watches the army
of sparrows in the bushes, how they feint
and attack a hawk threatening a hidden nest.
Sign for distraction. My mother spies on robins busy
in the crabapple tree. She notices what fruit they eat, what seeds
they leave behind. Sign for poisoning your enemy.
My sister studies the hummingbirds’ fight scenes
near the feeders, learns how to swing a sword by how
they move their heads. Sign for misdirection.
My son, still too young, takes pictures of the crow’s
shadows advancing through the trees. Develops them to see how
outlines of shadow steal into light. Sign to infiltrate.
He tells us his pictures are really maps
with unseen portals. We tell him he’s not ready
to start opening the doors.
In the night, she feared the featherings
of her aorta. A coursing of crimson lifted
into aerodynamic theory. She listened to the testament
of Red, memorized the Book of Blood. Studied
the viscous path of the hibiscus’ blackest blooms.
In the middle of July’s heaviest heat, she could be found
eating the fireworks. A sky full of burning
crowns. She steals one with the widest boom,
places it on her head. She understands now
the Righteousness of Beak, of Dawn.
Self Portrait as Cloud
I dabble in titanium colored layering
I babble about centers about the luminous
elemental canvas of sky I’m playful
with horizontals I crow on and on about the sheen
of rain about the texture of rain
about the little eggdrops of rain
I stutter over the cities in the atmospheres the skyscrapers
of stratosphere the cabals in the magnetosphere
I’m all aflutter over the innovation of the wind
of the exhibition of the current of the entanglements of a breeze
And the mirroring of the seas oh how loud I am
about the thirst of a green wave