3. Sledmere, Maria. (2020) But the hard glass [Text; Oil Pastel on Paper]

BUT THE HARD GLASS

Is it not light with a tendency to break as it does

I am with you, the almost morning

a marigold. No body of water is held

in motion, the colloquium on falling

would not stand

for adhoc trauma. In the Q&A

asking have you ever been drowned

or burned. Your body of water and salt

is glassily tipsy, belonging to no one

worth their satin. A misty afternoon

where I lower red feelings into the sea 

like no good air

the edible notation

spills its text. Hardest, a glass is

only this. I relay what the nurse said

regarding our end

with the medicine, shimmering

my way in winter negligee

the concentrate of mint. 


 

We should gather up such cries

as to split the poem from the atom, 

swirl it around so

hyper from object 

should glut

the uncertain morning with allotments

and water. I had rained

on you so long 

my body was a drunk parade. 


 

Nothing more ultra

than such marinal conditions for life,

you grow in my blood with eyeliner and oranges.


 

I want to accent the past with this, 

drag you to the edge of a laughter.

The baby next door was called Lyra 

and my icy stare

for the cloudy martini was dirt

as I smoked, my analyst said 

it would be a while before the ground could harden. 

 

I am upset for days on the topic of interest,

soft money so owed

and a genuine fluency where you touch

the range from purple to crimson 

where all of us pick

and call that starlight a flower, and call

me back from the strawberries

you care for

shining with only

my communist acid, my perishing glass. 


 

I could tongue the daylight to death you see. 

I could exact a boyish sensation

this close to pandemic.


 

An expository song 

on our casual glissando

I would say is not yours, kissed of crystal

yet drips 

a poison honey, I love you

as the bee in its calyx etcetera

to say 

a very clean image would settle the vitrics

in their cabinet of pleasures,

a long and drawn out sound of blood.

 

Minor, go like that, we like

to be carefully kissed against the wall

which shakes and drips

its chessboard pattern of gestural transparency;

our eyelids hard as frost, closed 

so unable to see

beyond research-based osculation.

 

The sea surrenders

eons of hormones in pieces of sea-glass

smoothed by the sea.

 

I love that nothing now is inherent. 

In prisms, the dusk is split for all of us

marigold

your sobriety aslant

to peel the last strap off my shoulder

have I given enough

of this grief

a little strawberry

you leave in my neck

and the weather when it starts 

to green in me

another cancelled Marxist disco

 

No major selection

of all that is lightly said

I give up my chords, my dripping airs

to blue us of movie tempers

 

In my underwear, under red water

what cost

on the marble

what aim

for glass I am greenly undone

 

Hardest the cut is last

and freshest of scenes, it lives

indexical; astride the callous marigolds

polished by every yellow in your name

your beautiful name.