petal organs

 
                                                churchlike, we laminate what light  
                                          we have left over from the mints of these 
                                          sorry gestures of veils: 

             evangeline, given as what we learn to say, although, often: 
                           a sigh pressed. 

     as for what we split with a tiny axe by crease of lip 
                    what smokes, or faints in breaking   but it was there, 
                           in dark lit by cattle belly, dropped my mother’s drawl, 
                    made widower my voice in grass with one good knife and so, went 
                    soundly soundless    
                                       for all my  losses were wetted unto 
                                 meadow/light ;    
	
             as well the might to wait for words, though preyed over, soaked harshly, to 
     wander back in their trailing gowns and be in some brutal arithmetic cumbersome, 
                                  as gun cotton delicate, 
             and not nimble have i been toward what of their bodies is left
     like matthew’s which went to war sleeping and palely 
                           went to where i put a choir voice once 
                                 and found it too savage to mean;


                           as in exile, with no made up country to be loosed unto, 
     in the way she wanders words as they are are too hotly folded, fly buttoned, 
leather gloved or dressed passed knees for mass as mary francis margaret anne marie rose 
and i, wherein the foyer a heavy chest we with bobby pins would lay our heads to clothe 
             and purse our forms of dirty learning for the porcelain virgin erect 
                    whose obvious organ for faith ever snared we felt in blouses 
             endangering 
                           but our brothers who had guns relieved cotton sock, would 
                    unsurely into bad words, arcades of, 
                           their fifteen my twelve or thirteen and my figure then 
                    meandered and was as a tub watched filling 
             as to not rot the under or linoleum 

                                 and by caught in the longer legs
                           of someone’s catholic daughter ,
                    i mean by matthew often 
                             and rather latin water 
                                          to and in tall grasses 
                           and though wonder/rust, 

                                 would not by matthew suffocate my one and wither 
                           beggar flower, 

                                 so long as bays and totes bruises, 
                                          no unfondling or any mute trade, 
                                          no catechism or lamp to study funeral
                                 so that even in white surrenders, what was (uttered) 
                           did not covet me, or take and return me: 
     all tracks back to me aning scrapped for the war 
                    but would and sell for locomotion
                           the tender angles, all 
                                 but those in one red wing, 
                           supple as eardrum,         

                                                    low, no bait laid 
                    for the trapper when all that glows and only privy 
to its sounds, which are un bear able, unable, unbear, un um bear, um, uh, so as to, bear, 
so tremble, want to, your weight, , so as to, your um, as we of with and sweat, no make, 
as we and cannot be but and want of this, bare able, un bare, uh bear un bare, um uh, so 
as to say, um, uh want to but um no.

     and by was set to petal organs 
             played at times to skin dream waste 
and swallow our bliss’s blisters (made of shroud,) 
     storm mouthed, paddling, stragglers
                                 if as is could lie well, swear to be unflooded,
                           but all soft place to convey is flooded,
                    the where to say
           I WANTED TO WITH YOU in trembling; 
                    was after what we would be as so
	
     so from wing to reddening where evangeline wanders
                    toward a louder love 
                                          as i toward and offer mercy sung like 
                                 something that was sleeping stung and swell as with 
                                 and am as if asundering; 

for i have now  only one   but the last     red     black     fox   psalm.
             though even it    will not have me.

Ekleksographia:
Wave 4.1.c

August, 2010

Poetry

Jackqueline Frost

Jackqueline Frost was raised in the trembling prairie by Appalachian snake handlers, and now lives in the Bay Area with her typewriter. Her poems have been featured recently in The Walrus, Try! and the Big Bridge anthology of New Orleans writers and artists. When "Jack" isn't panning for fool's gold in the hills of Northern California, she buries wine bottles to dig up later and toasts to Edna St. Vincent Millay and the fall of the Right.