The stars
align between antagonists. Bones tremble and bury ancient sorrows, ancient
births. The liquid fire of breath and mottled coals—unloneliness— curse
campanile bells. Green leaves crack from crumbled earth, the bud of an anemone,
the piston of a tulip, the starlight of a dog. This summer burned down last
night and whited out a gaseous planet turned on its hip. A limb climbs out,
another one, a clawing hand, two feet that kick. Where is the bright damage
that makes a forest into a plane? It’s in the stars; it’s in the kaleidoscope’s
pops and clicks; it’s coming out of groaning concrete, taking its first breath.
Let us
unloose the knives, discard the sheaths, uncross the limbs that broke upon
impact. Let us reknit and refold the shaken dance into a plume of dust. Let us
fold and watch a blasted tree grow new skin while gilded limbs encase and
shimmy up. Here, the monster offers life for a box of tiger lilies, flaming
synecdoche that traverses scales of deadly melodies. There, gargoyle wings are
overgrown with columbine, magenta pink and white. Let us nose downward. Let us
emasculate ourselves. Let the monster’s limbs be unbreathed, unbroken, unsung.