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no pronouncements


On a small hill grew a bullhorn rose.
It was making no pronouncements.
________
Beyond the hooded moon, the stars would not
unleash their light. My fingers
cold with summer could not button
my shirt. The fingers had been
imperiled. Jinxed.
________
No curtains hung
between where it happened and hadn't. The man
I worked with looked at me,
shrewd. He'd seen
my dull face. His neck veins
tightened. He flipped
something grill-wise, said
I'll kill him.
________

The absent-me wrung out
a rag, turning away from the sink,
away from the wall, flat
as a hand pressed over a mouth.

—It was air that had forced me down,
pinned me, heaved till I
became little of a self

      with a little thought:

Check for blood regardless.
________

Flat in parking lot dirt I turned
for orientation, eye to eye
with something glinty—rim misshapen,
half-sunk metal. I could be
alive

only to flowers and birds,
the stricken
fields and fields and fields of them.

The human?
(could he be a he—a being—what he
did—undid—
what could be only
un-being)
________
Like air: memory
Memory: like air
I walk through and
disappear
________

It hangs and hangs and hangs—
not bell, not noose.

A case of walking paralysis.
A case of can't-report.
________

Glance
at the shack, the tree. Nothing
looks back.

Knife-I-am-ready-
to-pull, are you ready
to gleam

in the lot
where I could not
scream?

Shock me past
the blacking out.
Shock me awake—

speak for the mouth-that-was-mine,
for the voice, triple-strapped
in its jacket, marching on.


Alessandra Lynch

Daylily Called It a Dangerous Moment
Alice James Books


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