Four Motions for Losing Emotions.
At times, upon rising from the gentle tug of sleep I feel
as if I had not, but watch two toothless birds
with feathers jagged break off from the picture frame.
They are not for the sky alone, for they will find
another window pain to paint, while inside the colors churn
pencils and petals and people, the edges far fading from foggy.
I fear the shapes of cold that hunger on my breath
will cut themselves away, carrying
shadow pieces to follow the wind, until I am left
alone. I have only words, fragments fal-
ling like leaves from the breath of two
who walk, coats heavy against the cold. I surreptitiously steal away
their thoughts, and like a child leap
into the decay.
I am the camera that rests
in my head, taking life like a bag of air;
I cannot blink as the crowd
crowds me in, cannot breathe my own breath,
when I speak it’s a caw carbon copy,
I am caught in the crow created sky.
I escape, all is silent.
In my room of bottled breezes
where the wood is dark and light left lingering
at the door I unload lungs of their load, never stopping until
bang on window, bottles break,
shattered air and (amidst
the clatter of birds) I remember all is oxygen.
I want to leave that which is of the masses
to the mannequins, whose politics of published roses
mouthless shout that I am in love,
beating clouds against my brain like soggy cigarettes.
All I can do is dress them up in furs and glitter,
hide between their legs and scratch letter after letter, another
artforartsake in the attic.
If only I could find the words to fetter
fast to the inside of my potters cheek, those that
cut the sky like skin
letting stars bleed out
bringing me closer and closer to
The light goes off in the window and I cease
to feel the burn. My heart, dragging
downward, beats low and dull. I can no longer see
my own face, those tired eyes of brown, the lips that
crack with cold and smile. Now I only sense the tip
of a nose. I am
awake and wanting with the hunger
of an earthquake, the insatiable sea
gulls ripping apart bags of chips between the legs
of sun caressed flesh.
I think of something to say after I have fallen
back to sleep. Or maybe I’ve already
said it.
- Jesse Miller