Flesh counters flesh, I grab your hand by Carolyn Srygley Moore
Amidst the distances within our mouths I grab your hand.
This is not hell. In hell there are no daughters
tumbling from treetops fully orange-winged.
Amidst the distances within all nonbiblical transgression //
& I am thinking of the post-it note on the bedroom door
Do Not Trespass // we stare like fools out the window
at the landingstrip for planes & hot air balloons & skydivers.
Time means nothing to me anymore, history
is prehistory is the future. I take your hand to walk the alleys
where aluminum cans remind me of what lasts
& headlines blow past to remind me of what doesn't last //
I take your hand amidst the chasmic echoes
amidst the echoes of what was. Our secrets merge in time
like software our secrets merge
like strips of sunset
like striations of Impressionism. Flesh counters flesh
as branches meet wind, or better than that.
& the black cat of cut cardboard fills windowsills with dew
of plaintive cries, high pitched. None of this is new
no, none of this is new.
Carolyn Srygley-Moore is a 1984 award-winning graduate of the Johns Hopkins
University's Writing Seminars, a Pushcart nominee, and author of Enough Light
on the Dogwood (published by mimesis poetry). Her work has appeared in numerous
journals to include Antioch, Pennsylvania, Eclectica, Stirring, and the antiwar
anthology Cost of Freedom. A You-Tube reading is accessible at Snoest 2010. Carolyn
lives in Upstate New York with her husband and daughter.