Jessica O. Marsh, Four Poems

ECHO / BENTO

lentil chat bath teakettle diva
balcony feel chin glass stairwell
ornament drug denim neon low heel
mattress file light gadget shadow
parcel zombie lychee mirror hoodie
cord florist pattern torso puzzle

A cache A carton A cat A chart A chasm

There is a lake in the hollow
A jury stretches for the jingle

There is icing on the lawn there is
Dry ice in the metronome laden with fading

No crime No letter No name

All pistil All pylon All plinth All pauses

The highway’s an outfit
The car is a shell

There is a pin in the ragweed
There is a mirror in the gender

A pattern A shadow A gadget A spell

WHO WANTS LOVE

Pushed past the surface matrix
Erred into shameless representations

Never foregoing value to any daydream
Who wants love?

This is my bier this is my pliers
This is my moonbeam this is my sunbeam

Horses horses shoddy allegiance discord reveling
So who wants love?

Fraught gave me an ear ring
grew in a fancy silver shiverings

It’s raining change where is my goblet
Said one appraising resource tapped the blessing.

Who wants love?
Known in this stream of grieving as blueprints tatters now strained

Though deviation’s a seductress
What felled to earth estranged it kismet

Your mine woof toys apart your mine warp
So who wants love?

Lent like steel into the current moment
Sensible ripples who goes denying blissed out

Mouth to mouth my mouth felt difference sowing
This is the rift context the bowing huntress.

Paused fretwork of the day dream
Slips slack like shadows of the lattice tracery

A charm always alarming with proof prodigal
Who wants love?

 

ZINC

Dream prow of scribbles. A pillow of syllables scrabble on a grassy green a letter’s letters written round in chalk. On pieces of broken rock I turned round and round to read. Here and then here and always here below the hand XXX a series of Christograms. Three crows with humanoid guffaws stumble over their own slipstreams.

Deictic rain near and far tapping a landscape S.O.S. dampen all leaders, all types of abode. One heavy interior bound to the animal curled in the night. Each to each continuing air gasped well is well goodnight, no one is sleeping. What implied gold’s ever breeding.

Wide planks take you home and a fire’s recall. A garden’s common tragedy of silently meeting their needs. To what do you listen? She thought she needed one thing, but the sky was so complicated. Slips off the clasp, almost a flame, we wear the jewelry of ash, eat fruit from the weeds.

The day shimmers so close, so whole, it is faced. Then you know what fences were keeping the hush of the sedulous sounds of escape, the work of beginning as-if. What won’t be unwound? Past the core, the whole branch reaches into the ground.

 

FLOWER BODY

For Ana Mendieta

I breaking apart on the water and my clotted petals sinking
I thawing frozen forest on the wild, diurnal tongue
I thinning of the sun into this night’s clearing

I unbinding my hair it is falling and falling
I pixelating the image your possession
I scattering all claims made or lost

I adjourning the jury
I weakening intensity
I severing the cord

There is a fire near the water. There is a body in the flame.
There is a flower in the weeds. I have felt myself repeated.

When I heard the idea in the glance
I needed easing
When I found the dummy, when I rebuilt the dummy
When the dummy began seeming beautiful
I needed easing
Why because imagining’s ease directed.
Why—if we live past our mistakes.

What you said, now is a river I break
____in like
What you said, is not approaching stillness
____never is
I, mimicking, glean from your voice
____this husk:
I see dirt, water, macerated petals
____pulling apart
Into what
Into what thing, into what one thing
That would be easy to understand
and to love?

It’s easy to forget why
It’s easy to forget to forgive the forgetting
It’s not easy to walk to the water’s edge
What did I say to myself there?

I, leaning down, hair falling and falling
touched that self and it stopped recording—

The pressure falls apart into rain
Into that one name
Into this whole scene, green afternoon
It is plucked
It is something falling and falling
It is tapping the river together
Pocking the dust at the stairs
Sorting the grasses, stirring the leaves

It was falling apart. Now it’s here.

 


Jessica O. Marsh lives in the Hudson Valley. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Fanzine, Flying Object Press (broadside), Lana Turner, Patient Presses (chapbook), Prelude, and Vinyl Poetry.

2016-12-21T06:15:39+00:00