Aurum Foliatum
The blood of the leaf darkened and
clogged. It is now elegiac, subtle, brittle amber. Christ
stands cracked and blackened in the altarpiece.
The dry leaf is the theory
with which oil matures upon his body.
Time, quivering comet, travels
the resin. Wounds it in stelliform scars. Scorches it.
And the scorches have the smell of wood once smelled in the plum-tree.
When from those branches knees of bronze
unfastened and marked the ground
as battlefield
where still the wind comes and blows
like Resurrection’s afterthought.
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The wallet fell out before the taxi drove away as a
Carcanet of packets departed from one server to
Another while the century spun, shedding on us
Dull rain: conscious ephemera, a disturbance of flies.
Vehemence in deity or coalition dearth ensures.
Upon joyful spite all worldly blunder depends.
O optative art, – its slovenly soar, choirboys’ mouths
Drooling past pews of fading alms – access is denied.
Next up, revolutions mark umbra on the screen.
The sketches pile even as the marriage is annulled.
The office has ceased to be Euclidean. So, let hence
Be hence. In profile, the weaker eye is forgiven.
About the Author
This poem is reprinted with permission from Matter.
About the Author
When I smoke of my own volition,
my grandfather stands behind me—
his brittle palms on my shoulders,
birthing a scene I will never witness.
Through each rasp he swings his arms,
cutting air in dry arcs, with his poison so tender
that I can’t grasp how my father
could resist such a performance.
And how I, at the ripe age
of carefree, manage a sighing surrender
under the weight of our history.
I have half my father’s years,
but twice my father’s fears in my follicles.
His first job he cut his hand for three dollars and sixty jiffies,
still his boss wouldn’t sweat the damage.
Heal with it, he said.
In New York, Dad couldn’t read
but spoke a sentence the length
of his strides across the desert highway.
“Window seat, no-smoking.”
Even then, on a plane with no money
nicotine had its price.
Yet I’ve the entire English language at my disposal
and still no vocal chords.
Porcelain I’s dotted neat spill from my teeth,
I speak white
—beneath, my R’s are rolled,
my thighs are pulled pork; I can’t coagulate.
Only smoke puts my Indian knees at ease; I’m short of death,
Searching for words in this foreign tongue and ancestral breath.
About the Author