Emerge, lion-maimed. Expand
a monstrous mouth. Between awe
and the child without a face, know
of the wolf. Remark: “Shame
in its creature heart,” but never
needle it. That emits bones, notes
its tongue. A lizard has her dividing
masks, will also voice means: if that
was at the atrium, the sister terrarium’s
difference is picture crystals: common
peaches. The icicles: glass cinders.
A water flame unfurled, a child
face, a window circle, a rose voice,
a lizard figure, a capitalized sun dot—
not a word painting. The grass hovel
where mercury wanders but points
monolithically treats intimately
this written wheezing, becomes
still, looks south against the last.
Know when. Take back. Awe in.
Do for. Eat there. Call to. Gather
my Dorothea. Trust always
her broken-signal stillness,
the broken paper bird, if it appears.
Notice the child. Awe. Know her
name: Dorothea. Take this name:
Dorothea. Take her name.
brothers, you burn, turn toward trying to forget, to feel again: a gone gift you hadn’t built wasn’t thought up: your sisters, cartons, a kinship, your possible past: you’ve missed, remember, their makeshift moment: time them; film time; fall, crash, directly into fact; ask, caladrius; look, milk your last sun myth: eyes looking up, caladrius, past your curse, you’ve thought out heat, you’ve noticed: others saw their push away: layer water over outer strength: periscope: fly away feeling: feel: fall: follow into kinship: push past the last brief having; even nest in that new cut sun then plummet up: remember and tuck, cleansed, into ascent, weak eagle.
Molly Gaudry is the author of the verse novel We Take Me Apart (Mud Luscious, 2009) and the editor of Tell: An Anthology of Expository Narrative (Flatmancrooked, 2010). She edits the seasonally themed nature-writing journal, Willows Wept Review, and dedicates “Glass Cinders” to Ariana-Sophia M. Kartsonis and “Reborn” to Aaron Burch.