The wren’s mystery:
knowing when to flap,
when to let the air
fulfill the stillest
motion, a shifting
inside that involves
neither muscle,
nor thought. Waiting
is an art that implies
whatever comes next
despite the gusts of intent.
What is the point of flying
when so much happens inward?
Her fingers on the planchette
do not intend to push.
She remembers when
they lightly flew
across skin, another
lifetime before sickness
fell between them:
him and her, selves
made up of words
misspoke, mistook;
and, now, her fingers
move to call them back.
The heart-nib quivers.
The Ouija
answers what she did not mean
to ask at least in others’
presence. Between
“good evening” and “good bye”
lies so much difference, and, so,
her deference for the spirit world
keeps her from crying out. When
she is taken by the faintness,
she loses faith in conscience.
The world shuts. The isn’t
simply isn’t, and something else
turns negatives to likeness.
Inamorata:
a woman loved can read her fate
in others’ silence. What loves
her not kills her not
as Poe would so acknowledge
were he invoked to lecture
to the séance as eager sitters
gather at her table and peer
at gargoyle symbols. As each
black form is settled on,
and gnarls itself in focus,
she feels its malcontent:
the X’s subtle violence,
the perilous V
that almost hurts her
as his forgiveness does.
The even temper that never
once placed blame
condemns her, and, so,
she’s mindful of the voids
between each word; she
learns to let what isn’t
move her like the wind,
to flutter when she cannot
walk, to warble when she
cannot say, “Good evening.”
