After Elizabeth Willis
I confronted aquiline humors over the claim that nature repeats itself. I shook off the memory of telling stories in an open field. This train rakes up the warming mulch of my private lexicon. Beneath the road are foxes. Under the foxes, lost boys sift gold nuggets through cashmere. They fabricate immense cultural wealth.
It's not your eye's fault if skaters, glazing the pond, stop loving one another long enough to gather dark flowers. Haunted verses, cantos of sound. As if in lace they could reach out to several little others of the dream, or at least bristle against the downy body of the softest vulture. It is she who lurks, black and coy. If I could only whistle her down. Noise is noise, but the summer taught us to find the mysteries of incidental arguments.
Now the horses are coming in, smeared with campy ale. They've been to the quarry. They've camped in the soundscape left behind by a bell's clap. These symptoms radiate, unscheduled, from a condition of terrible fashion. Of polished, radiant money.
In my dream, the cat had three eyes. I held it high over my head. Its second mouth puked. It teethed at splinters. I cried and cried.
I placed my hands there, just on its wasted shelves. A galaxy of open space an intolerant heaven unrolled its finest banners. Young boys made a physical overture out of the hermetic mouths of crabs.
The letter "A" surfeits. I waver like a gem. Our little house, our little house, a single candle burning at the window, it wavers in imaginary wind.
In my dream, the ornate women ring a bell. It booms like the softest ghost. Its counterweight backs down into the galaxy beneath.
You have earned your decorations, your embellishments, every small, dark moth that flies into your cupped palms. They tenderly palpate your molded face. They plead.
Now it is dusk. Now it is twilight. I pull every red from vamping leaves and use it to color my brocade, my brooch. The street is for sale.
I have my mother in my heart. Her angels of gravity. Country air circulates behind her keyhole. Pronouns loiter there; the language of the poem attaches to our baroque bodies.
Connor Fisher is the author of the chapbooks "The Hinge" (Epigraph Magazine, 2018) and "Speculative Geography" (Greying Ghost Press, forthcoming 2020). He has an MFA from the University of Colorado at Boulder and a Ph.D. in Creative Writing and English from the University of Georgia. His poetry and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in Typo, the Colorado Review, Tammy, Posit, Cloud Rodeo and the Denver Quarterly.