Ryan Laks |
[ where we measure silence*]
Mary Magdalene lays on the ground and pretends autumn tracked her down. But thank you for the beautiful book that you gave me. To which she replied: good evening, this is my body, my wild battle with the twigs, I dream my son, I can leave anytime. Thank you to the very existence of the willow leaves in the garden. Thank you to the other meaning of maroon. I desire a dream of being dead, dressing my final body in a screen of moonflowers. Once upon a time, in fact, I opened the book skyward amidst the scentless leaves, curled into claws, falling. How to tell you now, I have become a story, become bones, become a misunderstanding of this birch's shade. So much flowering in the autumn midair. Which is when she touched her bed of moss, solemnly. Which is when she imagines, I suppose, his hands deep, her mouth a plum blossom moaning in the mud. Heaven in a simple way. A dream not big enough for a heart, I fell asleep in. The blur of leaves made the wind pick up, I tried to climb down from the tree, then I tried to study rain. It's always raining. From a distance, I watched myself climb down, speaking calmly about how I love you. Beautiful Mary, why don't you answer. Your sleeping turns my heart into a pair of crows. I hold my chest. My wounds close up before you reach up for a kiss.
* source: Poem quotes and/or paraphrases, in part, both Nick Flynn's book of poems, "Some Ether," and Araki Yasusada's Book, "Doubled Flowering."
[ did I fly south of my wound?]
How long had snow lingered in this awkward place?
The sun burns through snow. Time works this way
until nothing is left. Out on the lake
I stand frozen on the ice. The lake believes
profusely in its shallows, like I do
and everybody who just stepped out
all turned blue. I found I was alone,
or vice versa. I had hoped to find something
in my reflection because I wanted to love
the depth of my dreams. We have every right
to expect wonderful things, planned or unplanned,
or to create a sharp contrast by the softest light.
The sky is quiet, the flatness of afternoon
erases what I thought was thought.
I see the root of the matter: small bodies
in the wan and graying sky, with feeling,
planted in dark ground, wait for their sense
to flower against sky. A season is a novella
remodeling itself. The habit of my eyes recall
what freedom's like, from there I gave away.
What I remember most about winter
is how everything falls silent.
The birds are dead at last. Noonday gloom.
Tomorrow will be just like today.
Only every moment will change;
as I become (in)visible,
cracks in ice.
about Ryan Laks