And Made of It
whose hands the world
say tradition meaning
In the name of is what it is,
sun casts the shadows
To speak to into or to
through this needs more
Perhaps a handle.
An as if turned to music,
Here are my hands
for pulling the walls up.
will cause a wobble.
Rib to tip in the direction
momentum, tell you
What. I tell you What.
for an opening.
But for a throw of,
to or for or from.
Kick throw repeat
for a pliable vessel.
I have never seen
How could everything possibly be mine?
Laying for the stagecoach sweet-talking the scope.
Misnomer here. From now on I’m calling her
To hold you. If you were my and I your charge
I had a fabulous hat and a language
Than stepping from one room into another.
Of breath to excess to your last ash.
The top shelf bottle there with our name on it.
You know our name by now don’t you? My love
A cause the cone to open. Welter swelter
Or jack but that you’ll pull the black and I
You can’t be nearly close enough to me.
You Are Here
but hadn’t told me yet. Hung right, lurched
over tracks. Said he loved Bartholomew –
flipped, flayed, lugging his skin. The birches
played yes-men, nodded off. Beyond the trees,
a woman tried to teach her dog to sic.
The sound of the jerked choke chain carried
rattle of metal links. Claim dark led our lips
to an undisclosed location. Branches heavy,
fallen on a wire. Some train had an answer
to define absolve, but too far off. See,
we didn’t see the gun-shy stars until much later.
Three gallons, good moon. Good dog, now sit.
He touched his tongue to where my lip was split.
Here is the bird that cries to-do
and where your daughter
passed through the frozen season,
the empty house. I love you
in the film that collects on the table,
on the windowpanes. Where she ran
her fingers through your dust and frost.
reduced to a smudge with a speck and a dot,
having safely crossed the river.
In the fallen city, the surprise was
what was not found, which was
virtually anything. Porch guarded
by a gun called Kindness. Small dogs
at the screen doors, big dogs at the gates.
Not alone, see, rather, beside myself,
when all of my lines are lines of defence.
When all of our best suits outfit the dead,
same scale of one to stricken. The clauses
include: stop-gap, sunset. Here, my straight
face claiming victory, trimming the wicks
to praise what is ours to re-ravel.
no older than yourself stood in the sun,
but trembling. We used to say my people,
knew which wind would carry us away
and which would take us home again.
I am speaking for myself. Don’t waste
your breath. The dogs aren’t deaf,
they’re trying to forget their names.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dora Malech received her B.A. degree from Yale University and her M.F.A. in Poetry from the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. She has been the recipient of numerous honours, including a Clapp Fellowship from Yale, a Capote Fellowship and a Teaching-Writing Fellowship from the Writers’ Workshop, and a Glenn Schaeffer Award. She led the Iowa Workshop at the IIML last summer, and will join the IIML as a primary MA co-ordinator in 2007.