Poems of the Week

3 Aug

THREE POEMS BY BRIGITTE BYRD

(quixotic cooking)

My mother is a fish, she said.

Everyone know the effect of routinizing memorable reading.

By the time she found a man riding with a libertarian spirit, she had already reorganized her eyes and moved to an alternative way of excitement. She gorged on her misplaced husband each night. Loved this achievement. You know, fight against windmills, giants and all. A chimaera, she said, and

I am a
pavane
pour orchestra
avec choeur

playing a-
round to
pound down
my reputation.

(looking back it was easy)

When there was a storm in the house she tied a scarab around her neck and wished for rain. Why looking up for divine intervention when she wrote the brain is wider than the sky. It was difficult to stay in the present when nothing happened and she laughed with. If I ever need the inspiration right about here is where I lose my patience. What happened next was expected. She bounced higher and higher until a branch caught her midair like an extension of. Je vise le véridique hermaphrodisme mental qui charge certains êtres fortement organisés. She sailed off on a swan like the king of Bavaria and her teeth started rotting. There was a gate to open and there was a man to kill to die with the birds for nothing.

(architectonic angelus of the mother)

The day I
visited
my mother
in her stone
house, the sky
was a cloud(ed)
heart a
version of
emptiness.
She was—
without tricks
in her (bag).
We ran
down the cliff
to slash our
bodies against
metallic waves.

That’s stupid.
Pass me the
(lighter).

Worn wise
by wanderings,
she was—
a woman (the sea)
spilled out
our bodies
her purple heart.
We clung to
each other and
words got in
the way.
She rose
with the wind
hovering
above the
stone (house).

I just needed
help with the
(bag).

There. Blurred
water, an ex-
change, a vital
letter (in her)
like the stage
to an infinite
fire. She
clutched my throat
with her
feet (the ape)
and my hands
(sunk)
into the dark-
est sea.

I followed
(my mother)
laughing like
a sour mirror.

Was she
a desert(ed)
garden
a dead ape
thrown
into a bag?

The night
I left (my mother)

stone / house / sky

watched me
while I hurled her
(heart)
at the flames.

*all from The Dazzling Land, Black Zinnias, 2008.

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