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
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
a poison honey, I love you
as the bee in its calyx etcetera
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
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
on the marble
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.