by Anna Lee-Popham
(follows Kay Sage)
Ever reaching for I, muscles taut to each blank script,
each languid step a shadow, each blade of one’s back
to a cold paper hut, yet where but here could I run
my velvet fingers along this ramp to no known home,
stop at the height of viral antennas to linger on reactive
elements of air, each gas a trace of hollow heat and thirst,
each stretch of this band upon band of blue, each sheet
somehow a mess of torque, in these slips a face or chest,
in each slow breath, the texture then tone of parchment.
I, with nothing but speed, with only slope and descent,
these detours the routes of only marbles, each sleek
path but an apex I pull myself from, each turn a crude
note, each tuck an ankle or hip in the wear of its bone
and brittle, I rough my cheeks from this smooth concrete,
I ingest every hint of this only sun, I look to each exquisite
detail of living, every empty hydrant, every withered coin
and gold, I want nothing but umbrage, here, as I am, eking
out each barren stretch, every short leap between disaster.
Then sand, each particle a solitary breeze from our throats,
each route a vertex, the scope of each mirage a silent retreat
I drink into corners, here, I am tangled in expanse, cut loose
and rabid, here, I am at the meeting of uncertainty and calm,
I am walking off the raw edge of capital, I am attending only
to the oil of my fingertips, how each of my tender palms crisp
into some wise curve, any window but a temporary barrier
to wind, I have eaten air each day I’ve been here and leaving
is not a thing the far reach of this tremor has ever known.
each stretch of this band upon band of blue, each sheet
somehow a mess of torque, in these slips a face or chest,
in each slow breath, the texture then tone of parchment.
I, with nothing but speed, with only slope and descent,
these detours the routes of only marbles, each sleek
path but an apex I pull myself from, each turn a crude
note, each tuck an ankle or hip in the wear of its bone
and brittle, I rough my cheeks from this smooth concrete,
I ingest every hint of this only sun, I look to each exquisite
detail of living, every empty hydrant, every withered coin
and gold, I want nothing but umbrage, here, as I am, eking
out each barren stretch, every short leap between disaster.
Then sand, each particle a solitary breeze from our throats,
each route a vertex, the scope of each mirage a silent retreat
I drink into corners, here, I am tangled in expanse, cut loose
and rabid, here, I am at the meeting of uncertainty and calm,
I am walking off the raw edge of capital, I am attending only
to the oil of my fingertips, how each of my tender palms crisp
into some wise curve, any window but a temporary barrier
to wind, I have eaten air each day I’ve been here and leaving
is not a thing the far reach of this tremor has ever known.