Women circle the frozen book
Book hums inside snow-
to ring or to muffle?
Skin revives skin
calls in accents when needed.
Script too heated to climb
what rushes in from both margins:
When white exquisites
wipe-out propels your own stillpoint
the page vanishes
mouth a cove
no one fished for approval
in the sensory deprivation tank
no knock comes
widowed hunger salty blue-lit return
furied shoulders enter cupped dark
Black pitched relent
to unwail adjusted eyes
whirring flesh and bone
A woman stands on her hands
and writes the impossible.
Crushes cardamom pod for morning coffee.
Listens very very very closely.
dormant bilingual in bereft corridors
the Book teems with
a network of koans
crushing masterpiece bare
She sends her brother
a pop-up version of the French text from their childhood.
Ladder of hands turn invisible pages
new paper sculptures
The first crisp unfolding
She rose to plug it
Her posture ignited by the word parachute
closes gap at plane’s edge
Record of scratched memory
Anoint your mother’s shingles from afar
The raised music of skin
the Book washed away
Dream the Book to ferocious
in your non-dominant hand.
Whichever direction she looked,
bewilderment’s scattered blue reached.
The week she left home
with light-musiked limbs
she dropped into a foreign city
inside tornado season.
Torn roofs excited, kites given to apprentice
What dismounts a jeweled flight