poetry DEAR MR AMMONS by Claire Clube I’m not in the habit of writing to dead poets
however I would like to write you a poem
for I too share your love of cash register tape the skinniness of the paper
a finely sharpened pencil uncurling the slightly soft slightly unruly coil, how it spills from my desk in its own meanders
today ice has formed ampoules at the edges of the lake in some places even like the shape of sagging balloons
lugubrious clouds I’m always looking inside cracks trying to sift out the gold
you write about the soul describe it like a river using prairie accretion poise
scum and foam
is this how the soul is?
why does home feel so far away? always we want to walk home
I like the idea of having wings I often dream of moths did you know the wingspan of a silk moth is one hundred and fifty millimeters wide
and the micro moth less than a mere tenth of an inch?
the soul weighs just twenty one grams maybe the same as the innocence we lose
private peculiar delicate
barely discernible
as the opening of the iris the very first time the closing for the last and the in between.
BLUE MILK by Claire Clube I still wear stockings, palest-pink and fairy wings dyed black.
When I was a child I wanted to disappear, be the force that hoists the moon.
We’ll never meet again like this:
February 16,1991.
The sun goes down, stains the sky tobacco. My waters break. I howl. You cry. How strange, the placenta, plump like a bagpipe. My breasts fill with hot milk, blue milk.
You anoint me.
*
August 28, 2007. Labor Day weekend.
The police advise me not to break a thing. To leave within the hour.
Your father says I’m unfit to be a mother.
He’s hidden you away.
I strip without shame, spread my limbs. I’ve never begged until now. Where are you? He can’t look at me, but tells.
I step inside. I know which vessel to smash: wafer thin, opaque, ancient, the colour of vanilla moon. Shards shimmer in the courtyard, porcelain moths dying in the light.
My nakedness they use against me in court: “an embarrassment.”
You’ll find a mother’s heart can be broken, and in many ways.
We tell stories, stack them like wet sand. Watch the sea break them.
My love is savage.
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