Jenny Drai
March 23, 2010
[from Visitors, Cavaliers]
1.
went to the door : a little thin :
& opened
flax cream light & peeled : widely open
glass persons who : not stained
incarnadine inhabit me
:
are not unrelated to memoirs, of passing through an age,
plait-spoke, feverish
_________________________________________
ever-soak this circumspect /
silence-eye
tears you elsewhere like historicity
(forward free the mastiff is loose among the eaves)
emotions of the warfare I grew up upon, if I didn’t
then flit among the wild & unbrackets,
the red stains of flowers & tall grasses
knowing a submerge-ment
resistant of photography memory annals to alleviate a subject
waiting for a vacancy to open
within the framework of this day-lit moon [ impossibly ] on fire–
someone has a lot to answer for the informant
has destroyed the mastiff, the illuminated parchment
we use to keep track,
of the awestruck, the terrifying
brink-root I compose
as to how I disappeared but reappear again
amid the shade of two moon-lit elms–
I’ll meet you later at examples & not assume a plentitude,
a favor upwards from the new wake, the strong
red dream,
narrational
___________
passage of yellow
ribbons tied upon my mental capacity :
is stretched out
& hours of
day-was-light-laid-over
: to a voice I replay my staff
(forward free the mastiff eats out the carcass of a deer)
of some cities
at the walls
take place in fields, in meadows,
of species in the battles & the meadows
viscous, all the names
in white
sap of milkweed pods, put your finger,
the heaving light of butterflies, the sticky
in places.
Are places in the storyboard & divided in dimension. I am salvaging
the papers we most enduringly require.
Uncanny subset. Anthropology.
2.
did not want to share the information
: & how you put yr words against apples
bushels in carts of bushels of pears :
record diminishment, allow me
error & sustenance : are yr streaming out buds & dust is yr
: charging
measure in a grass sea, a battle in shade
& hardly to worlds in a body
_______________________
the epitome of our
converges, quaking in these garments
abjured, destroying
sustain, movement, can–where is this ash
contusion, this is (a-la-la, fa-la-lei) dimensional
sonance, abandoning the brackets
shackles manacles or I’ll be right which was a ghost
head, from everywhere
Jenny Drai lives in Irvine, California. Her poetry appears in or is
forthcoming in Calaveras, H_NGM_N, Monday Night, RealPoetik, and
Vibrant Gray, among other journals. She is currently balancing
working on her tan with writing a novel about Jesus, Gilgamesh,
interior design, and the fate of those majestic white creatures of the
frozen north, the polar bears. You’re just going to have to take her
word for it that it is all going to come together.
