Felicia Shenker
from NOON
 
“In turbid liquid. The seeds sail. Cut from under the fence.
Covers it partly. Floods into the room. In cracks in the
sidewalk.

Something settles. Into an adjacent field. Dandelions and
their leaves. A blanket of snow. A voice, too. She finds
missing coins.

In the valley. The cows, let out, wander. Are separated, the
blooms discarded. Protects the roots of trees. Is heard.
In last year’s pocket.”

 

 

“Parting ways. A rising up of waves. Hurling rage. Through
the old screen door. Two fiddles play. All wrapped up in
wool.

Walking in opposite directions. That fall across the sand.
The layers of the social. Slams shut. A lilting tune. Is the
handle of the knife.

'Til the other’s grown small. So white and fine. Are
imaginary lines. And stays there. Is what he remembers. Is
carved out of bone.”

 

 

“Is what they named it. With room to move in or lie down.
Strung up like wires. So the notes run together. Emit the
faintest sound, then fade to silence.

After hours of careful thought. And a corner to sleep in. Or
a string of lights. Rub against each other. A pebble in a jar,
held in by the lid.

And a few conversations. The blankets piled high. Winking
in the night, in the trees. Cacophonously. Or a butterfly,
peering out through the glass”

 

 

“And left there idly for days. Wrapped up tightly. Watching
the hands turn. And lose all colour, become light. From
where they are swept. And now the space is clean.

Still. Bound with cord. In circles. The colour of dust. As if
they had not been. As if they could not be replaced.

And then begin to stir. Then knotted at the back. Around
the face of the clock. Is no colour at all. Of value. Or
present in a simple way.”

 

 

“Petals fall. With whiteness. Bending, snapping back as the
wind falls. Size and depth. A package can’t be shaken.
Returns.

They pock-mark the ground. As often as. Something falls
from it. Are measured. But listened to, closer. Square one.

Covering over the grey. Still filters. And is ignored by and
large. With silver rulers. For the rustling. Paper mars.”

 

 

“Where the air is thinner. Flies ahead. Its perfect arc.
Though it isn’t. The surface polished. All around.

Among the clouds. Spermatozoa, whipping. Mathematical.
A ghost. Made to shine. As if it meant something.

And the jet-trails. Their way toward the ovum. And
speeding up. Or a memory. Brilliantly. Around it, growing
old.”