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Poetry
by Harlan Wheeler BELOW THE DRIFT My tribe of muscles begins to flex in a small mile or two, hostile feet resemble misguided hardships. Escaping the buzz of busy things, I drift below, where brown is brown and green is everything. Enter the sky through soil, for the forest is nothing but a swell of graves. as dancing insects skins soar upon a breeze. After stumbling over impossible trails, I sprawl upon an aggressive ground of moss, beyond the secret gullet of catgut green. I explode into spongy darkness, sink below the seam, below the knees, below the turtles and frogs, coyotes that didn’t obey. Slipping like a silverfish with new memories whirring, cocooning, thoughts…a bee swarm, I drift and silt, silence a symphony as the sun fades, misguided and awkward, from time to time they fall from the sky, crashing like locusts hitting power lines. I hear only the rasp and cough of the black devil perched near me, drooling and choking, not willing to give up his sacred branches, screaming too fast, too dark, no one knows. CLAUDINE ON THE TRAIL The day I learned of women, I let my true self dream: Perfection of limb and skin, legs bent at the knees. Gray eyes in the moon light. We shift our weight and the forest opens wide, inhaling the colors one by one. Tongue tucked in mouth, our footsteps in the thistle, whirling our passion, skin cradling skin. I remember how to touch as the cindered sweat rolls off the rusty leaves. We start with a note that moves mouth to mouth, anatomy of grace, speaking with eyes. Legs silken over bone, twisted hands tremble. Crows unfold themselves from their wooded fences, they break into summer much too fast. Until we are left with how things could fit, lust falling out of our backpacks, we are pushing back against the swells of this reality. We hold together tightly as if it will matter, as if it will matter into something that we can name. Naked knees burn like a bonfire of leaves on an autumn day again and again, undone, unkempt, overrun with weeds. Our undressed sheets of music fall to the forest floor singing “Yes, yes” and underneath my yes another yes and another, until I lock you in my eagle’s heart. |
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