shifting underneath a pale sun
and blankets of cerulean water
i look up, out
the wind whispers
where i can't hear it.
i have already learned
the extent of my many arms,
i can already float
to the very top
of this ocean
but never past that soft mirror
passing through means—
suffocation?
and enlightenment.
if only these gills
were built for air.
1
i am
the warmth enters my fingers again
the slow noise of an oboe
and a clarinet joining from behind
the rain pours down the city slums slumber
the waves begin to pulse
the docks have more people than the ships contain
sailors fled the storm a while ago
i have a red umbrella, but that is all
no memories, no goals.
i know behind me there is something in the woods i know
but i am here
among the vollies of living noise
the rain streams down the gutters in a cascade of sound
the alleys fill with mist
the people all desaturate and blur
they are only smears of dark gray on blue.
from beyond i hear the sudden sound of a trumpet
break through the ratatatat
blaring
thisisnotmysong
and yet i feel there’s some kind of duet here
and i approach
high-strung melodies
the entrance of a piano
saxophone
perhaps a harmonica
and female choir
the rhythm of a guitar
a voice talking about a place far away
this isn’t the blues
the music subsides
and in its place is a man
dressed in dark clothes
holding a trumpet
and smiling as if he knew the secret to the world
2
we are like priests,
we swallow our sins
and store them in our bellies
(a type of hell):
the lining secretes acid
and the organ contracts
until the secrets are
completely
digested
but they were stones i swallowed:
pink jade and amethyst, quartz
the ruby and sapphire veins
that color my heart—
from above me i hear
laughter
the kind when people are all caught up in themselves
the addictive kind, the ‘angel’s kind’
the archangels gather and
gloat themselves into the air
but world is made of devils
harsh-mouthed and laughing
at their own misfortune,
their own good luck
they whirl around
pretending they are angels
when all they are is
a comical corruption
of ideals
their heads all tilted high
away from their drawn out shadows
that make horned shape
on the soaked concrete
hooved, tailed and with its mouth
stretched into a smile
or maybe a laugh
i wonder if this is where the dead go then where is god
where is the devil?
is that the devil, simply shadows of real life
and is that the cost of heaven,
the loss of remembrance?
i do not remember conspiring to go to heaven
the thought and appearance of these people ignoring reality
is frightening
i want to leave
to run away, out of this city
but i must talk to that man
waiting for me on the docks
i have to see what
it is
and whether
this place is death
who are we
and where
3
he digs his spurs into his horse
and charges into the great unknown
the ocean swallows the dock he steps on and
for a moment
it looks like he is walking on water itself
surrounded by walls of waves crashing down and around him
he rears as the inevitability of the storm
throws him a tsunami
the noise reaches a peak
sudden bellowing
violins harpsichords
pianos trumpets saxophones
singers trombones guitars
more vocals the tamborine and keys
the ratatatat of the drums
and the quick booms
of an older, louder drum
speaking out and guiding the words
of a storyteller
the seas roar
and the rain patters
the wind tears at my face
and screeches
the lightning cuts across the sky
in large slices
it strikes the water
and roots of electricity stretch their tendrils
into the deeper waters
the thunder echoes
off each pale reflection in the sea
this is the accompaniment to life
the crescending duet with death
the storyteller rides into the tsunami like this,
throwing himself into the sea
and the music suddenly comes crashing down
replaced by the humble murmur of waves
and the quiet strokes of wind
as if they were mourning
their fallen rival
their accompaniast
4
i escape off the dock
as it slowly crumbles,
rushing back onto land
heart beating quickly
i look to the sea
and feel as if i had nearly died
the rush of adrenaline is still in me
i run from the city now
dropping the umbrella
i will not forget reality
i must return—!
i know that as i enter i will forget again
this place of halfspirits and songs
of false angels and storms
instruments and voices
and remembering ants
but i return now,
feeling the cold of my fingertips
from sitting out too long in the rain
i would return and tell them all about this lost soul
the wake would begin again
properly
it would reach a crescendo of memories
we would all remember
they would come alive in the city
and pass on properly
singing their own last pitch
and charging into their own storm
cruising through caelum
my sails poised to catch
a stellar wind—
look
at the tumultuous dance
of these two galaxies
at the carefree bursts
of youthful stars
at the ripples
of their runaway companions—
we are going places!
there is so much to see:
sweet nebulas
and beautiful aliens,
and i am all caught up
in this
wonderful
desertion.
explosions
a million miles away
eta carinae, betelgeuse,
sirius—you were all bound
to go sometime
but look—
from your skeletons
a thousand little children are crawling out.
one slight and a swift descent
to the basement of civil engines,
vanished between an immense loyalty
and raucous protest,
tied with squeezing ropes and
surrounded by hoarse-voiced crows
waiting for this social structure
to topple.
Sara recently graduated from the University of Montana with a degree in Creative Writing. Since she is a raptor, it's hard for her to have a public occupation—so she takes to the creative arts. Currently she resides in San Antonio, writes poems in the mornings, and draws comics in the evenings.
She posts her art and occasionally journals at http://sarydactl.deviantart.com/.
Here is some of Sara's fantastic artwork.
THE NEW
RULES OF
W R I T I N G
ISSUE:
S P R I N G
2011
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