My father’s turn for Sundayschool unearthed
In tender minds the same way as a newborn
Full-breath, how fear could molt a ripened fruit
for squeezing like a heart to taint to taste to rule
And juice, mingled with the old pages splayed
My father’s gospel was beating drums.
To scare the devil with hot fruit fire and
His phobias, with stone bodies flexed
And I did, I smelled citrus in the cemetery.
Strung like beads of light amidst the graves
We did not wake the rocks with laughter
They’d think our feet were thunder.
Tag: strange
Me I’ve got no way
to circle my laugh out my body
I’ve got no way
to flourish from cracks in my skin
Me I’ve got no way
my fingers your bristling highlights
unless we sweep into the street
the night
in cars and preparing ourselves for screen eyes
The past few nights I’ve dreamt a stair abyss.
Every narrow city was electric.
Technicolor compasses melting under carpets.
It seemed I was a speck of ink on music
Despite the darkened picture frame and wine,
Each animal collapsed black holes in rooms below
And almost hell’s where I’d wake up at day.
Some secret vacations existed in a dictionary
Some soiled taupe school cardigan
Some hiding cosmic threat to waking peace
In catacombs where no child thought to look.
Along the hall which less and less grew worms
My sweat confessed the staircase was a maze
Where every sky became a clean white glaze
The last I slid on a black and cracking bridge.
Number one.
Get loose. Shake your shoulders out. Your shoulders fall out. Weightless.
Number two.
Breathe through yourself. Breathe to flay your lungs open.
Number three.
Poise.
Number four.
You can crack your ephemeral knuckles because you are now transcendent. Nothing touches you, not even constraints.
Ana Celeste Poetry 