Andrea Werblin is the author of Lullaby for One Fist (Wesleyan University Press), and has had poetry published in various print and online journals, including BOOG Reader, EOAGH: A Journal of the Arts, The Massachusetts Review, and Smartish Pace. She currently works as an Associate Creative Director in the Boston area.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
I’d like to say the mind fortunes
everything, is chance & center
& control. But/and the lips
(but laud the lips!)
fabled warning & grin.
Unforgivably well-drawn lips,
lips that dinnae speak,
diaphanous and darling.
All lake water & reaching
white heron. Cloud-drift, fat
fat sky. And how touching
how there is nothing new
to say about them – except,
how about them? how do
they part, suck in whole
holy breaths, what do
they perform precisely,
what will they will you to say?
What you lack in true passion you make up for
with dwarfish, generic desire, as if that’s ok.
Though you – in a version, as a symbol
and exemplary of common history –
might drill brain. Might leave memory
to its cyclical, demented aviation:
will not fly, refuses to carry.
If exhilaration recedes, if forgiveness is
breakfast to the willful party's hollow heart,
maybe age is aborigine to wonder.
I wonder how it feels to you – moving about
in your little diorama, pleased in a way
and forgetful of corrosive need, regrettable acts –
never quite sure which weighs more,
anger or fear, or which accounts for the sparkle.
Spring, and the anorexics are in bloom.
From clavicle to clavicle they kind of sing
unstrung hostile expressions day finds favor in.
Spring. And insomniacs turn heroically human,
undream their eyes, defibrillate.
Which you would know were you not
so busy watching yourself:
the bad light, the excellence passing.
Cowardice is seasonal. Therefore you propose
marriage to suspect images of yourself,
with all your vacancies watching.
Therefore you must decline.
Because the clouds resemble fists splayed against a caterwauling
teenage sky & fluky spring's a fluke of mud & construction,
a lie the mountains tell to each other and to fibs of rocky beach.
If I’m supposed to know, for example, why I'm here, an iceberg will
calve itself free of the mighty Arctic, leaking out secrets.
It should be that obvious, the way a body is
matinee to its own madness and fractured singing.
What if the body is a crater, not meaning to be
attracted to the rickety dark? Maybe it’s born greedy,
like a sea star. Maybe the body is maritime, an inlet
of devotion to chemical imbalance, & if only I can
dupe it into going steady, the two of us
shall never meet again, except as strangers.
Because trying to embrace life every single day
is boring, exhausting, pretty pointless if I’m honest,
I sometimes pretend a companion or two appears
in the fog, rolling in like newer reasons.