"Ellipse of Time" by Leslie Lindsay
David Eileen | Proofs
There is still the man surviving in his kiln, oven mouth purged of ceramics
to make respite from the wildfire licking up his studio. His works
fired twice, his life spared.
There are still the pinecones on the scorched mountain floor that only open after
everything burns down. Their flowering heatwise.
There are still nests falling in the neighborhoods onto soft grass, their insides empty knit
with streamers, free of drone wire.
There are still eggshells only broken by birth.
There are still giant lacewing moths being found out for the first time in 50 years
in Arkansas. In Walmart.
There is still the red-winged fairy wren even now teaching her heirs to sing before they hatch.
There are still ten thousand bees removed gently by an anonymous fireman
after they tried to lease a shopper’s car. A new hive furnished while they were smoked
into dreaming.
There are still brown bats with white nose fungus having their death sentences undone.
Piles of their bodies cleared from quiet caves, studied, turned toward new fruit.
There are still snapped photos of fallen nests coming to me even when I don’t make my feet
a map of the suburbs & walk off my need for solution. For dissolution.
There is still a pocket some mornings deep enough to widen my body
to your body, my mouth to your mouth, in the minutes before I am called to commute.
There’s still you in the dark asking if I’ve been writing lately & I say no because I feel
stupid in my small circles.
There is still hanging in the air the craft talk you gave me—go smaller—& when I looked
into the nest descendent I became so small that all the wonder I’ve been eating
overwhelmed me.
Which is to say that even in all my absence I can be determined & answered for, checked
against the fact of my breath. Therefore, there is still advice in this world
so good that it will take me when I take it.
to make respite from the wildfire licking up his studio. His works
fired twice, his life spared.
There are still the pinecones on the scorched mountain floor that only open after
everything burns down. Their flowering heatwise.
There are still nests falling in the neighborhoods onto soft grass, their insides empty knit
with streamers, free of drone wire.
There are still eggshells only broken by birth.
There are still giant lacewing moths being found out for the first time in 50 years
in Arkansas. In Walmart.
There is still the red-winged fairy wren even now teaching her heirs to sing before they hatch.
There are still ten thousand bees removed gently by an anonymous fireman
after they tried to lease a shopper’s car. A new hive furnished while they were smoked
into dreaming.
There are still brown bats with white nose fungus having their death sentences undone.
Piles of their bodies cleared from quiet caves, studied, turned toward new fruit.
There are still snapped photos of fallen nests coming to me even when I don’t make my feet
a map of the suburbs & walk off my need for solution. For dissolution.
There is still a pocket some mornings deep enough to widen my body
to your body, my mouth to your mouth, in the minutes before I am called to commute.
There’s still you in the dark asking if I’ve been writing lately & I say no because I feel
stupid in my small circles.
There is still hanging in the air the craft talk you gave me—go smaller—& when I looked
into the nest descendent I became so small that all the wonder I’ve been eating
overwhelmed me.
Which is to say that even in all my absence I can be determined & answered for, checked
against the fact of my breath. Therefore, there is still advice in this world
so good that it will take me when I take it.
David Eileen lives in the mountains of Virginia. Their writing has appeared in Black Warrior Review, The Atlantic, Diagram, Painted Bride Quarterly, and Best of the Net, with more at www.david-eileen.com. A big fan of talking to your neighbors; their work & letters are concerned with queer resilience, labor rights, solidarity, & care for our planet. They would love to talk to you.
Leslie Lindsay’s work has been published in various literary and art journals, including: Up the Staircase Quarterly (cover art), Another Chicago Magazine (ACM), Wild Roof Journal, Spring-Summer, Brushfire Arts & Literature, The Closed Eye Open, Tiferet Journal, Mud Season Review, Western Michigan Review, Fall 2023, and On the Seawall, Model Home: A Study Under Compression, a photo essay in miniature, April 2023.
