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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
April 17, 2009
Described as an autopsy, Field Notes by =salshep uses images of insects to dissect the end of a relationship.
Featured by SparrowSong
Literature Text
.
I: Insecta
I snap: a sling-shot
of sinew, tendons whipped
to joints that buckle in lines as cleanly creased
as an origami crane. Poised on a tripod of paper tips,
I anticipate the wind but there is only steel
shearing bone and then it all unfolds
with a scritch-scratch and tickle
of segmented limbs sprouting,
barbed as berry-canes.
II: Hymenoptera
My skin
once fed on your skin;
sipped at honeyed pores
with a thousand tiny, hollow tongues
III: Apocrita
and those words you said, the ones that closed
like fists to cinch me mute but for this
thin-bodied whine: please
don't ever speak
them again.
IV: Formicidae
They're predicting swarms
this summer: better batten down the hatches,
plug all holes; those little bodies can creep in
through the smallest cracks. In the event
of a breach, do not keep low and roll.
Reach for the vinegar: it will stop
the fire from spreading.
V: Myrmicinae
I understand instinct,
automaton motions dictated
by chromosomes and pheromones,
dances stepped to the chemical outlines of feet,
the endless, mindless back-and-forth; but
what I don't understand is how any of it
came to be choreographed
in the first place.
VI: Solenopsis
When this has been pegged out,
bound wrist and ankle, and I have watched
its skin shrink and all the meat from it stripped,
I will gather up the knuckle and toe bones, cast them
on the sand and study patterns
in the way they lie.
VII: Invicta
My words, rival
colony to your words: black flood
and fire-storm in a single, tangled mass
that consumes and consumes, until there is nothing.
.
I: Insecta
I snap: a sling-shot
of sinew, tendons whipped
to joints that buckle in lines as cleanly creased
as an origami crane. Poised on a tripod of paper tips,
I anticipate the wind but there is only steel
shearing bone and then it all unfolds
with a scritch-scratch and tickle
of segmented limbs sprouting,
barbed as berry-canes.
II: Hymenoptera
My skin
once fed on your skin;
sipped at honeyed pores
with a thousand tiny, hollow tongues
III: Apocrita
and those words you said, the ones that closed
like fists to cinch me mute but for this
thin-bodied whine: please
don't ever speak
them again.
IV: Formicidae
They're predicting swarms
this summer: better batten down the hatches,
plug all holes; those little bodies can creep in
through the smallest cracks. In the event
of a breach, do not keep low and roll.
Reach for the vinegar: it will stop
the fire from spreading.
V: Myrmicinae
I understand instinct,
automaton motions dictated
by chromosomes and pheromones,
dances stepped to the chemical outlines of feet,
the endless, mindless back-and-forth; but
what I don't understand is how any of it
came to be choreographed
in the first place.
VI: Solenopsis
When this has been pegged out,
bound wrist and ankle, and I have watched
its skin shrink and all the meat from it stripped,
I will gather up the knuckle and toe bones, cast them
on the sand and study patterns
in the way they lie.
VII: Invicta
My words, rival
colony to your words: black flood
and fire-storm in a single, tangled mass
that consumes and consumes, until there is nothing.
.
Literature
Manuscript
I have written us down, typed us up, and sent us out.
they will edit us, and say some parts are no good.
but I want your run-ons, your lack of punctuation; and you are so easy
on my weak binding, my damaged spine.
Literature
The Berliner
Sick of writing about the pianist,
she leaves for Berlin and makes her
home next to the absence of a wall
She contemplates the American Embassy
and changes her cigarette brand
She sets out walking
and considers percentages of lives,
eats alone, begins to consider meat as flesh,
removes paintings from their frames
and in their place hangs mirrors
Calling home small voiced
she asks after family and friends
politely, washing dishes as she does so,
the phone in the crook of her neck
She makes no friends, does not make love,
resents nothing and leaves no
holes in people's lives
Literature
hunchback whales.
mabe is nine, going on thirty-three.
she tells her mother i hate the way the sun and the moon don't share the sky equally, and i wish mister tompkin could still use his legs and if i could do anything it would be to read a hundred books at record speed and to stop fidgeting like you ask, and also, i'd pet a hunchback whale just once.
mabe's mother, who is busy cooking supper, asks mabe if she is keeping an eye on the twins. tells mabe to help them wash their little hands and to wash her own, too.
mabe's mother tells mabe to also set the table and to let the dog out and to stir the potatoes, please.
mabe stirs the potatoes then
Suggested Collections
An autopsy.
Published: Magma #39, November 2007.
Published: Magma #39, November 2007.
© 2006 - 2024 salshep
Comments9
Hooray for bastards and the art they inspire!
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