Alizon Kiel

Each fingertip drawn across my flesh
Each point of contact
Finds tiny silk threads looping in and out of my every pore
Mingling along the meandering pathways in his palm
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A survey
Found that I was made of limestone
Some fingernail scratches will leave marks forever
I was said to be made of migrated oceans
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The closet opened in a rush of cardboard
A lid ajar
Allowed the silk scarf to slither and writhe to the floor
Opening and opening and opening as it fell
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Most of my family is dead
My son said to me
As we were leaving the cemetery
As we were heading to our home
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We plea no more for cherry tree truths
With fruit centered in stone
Shedding red flesh shine on all beneath
They harvest then die
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The tension on my strings has no master
Bring me my bow sweet child
So I may draw across the resonance of a mother’s voice
Resound something comforting and rich
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1.

Rust is the tell of water’s dance with iron.
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It is quite possible that I do not believe in their God
It is a certainty that I neither believe in Heaven nor Hell
I do believe however in the curvature of a dark lens
In energy contoured even as our vision falls flat
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Roses have thorns

Her son lay dying in drapes across her lap dyeing crimson across a white canvas shroud in anguish
Blood itself is an organ with long long notes heard over wind that moans over long long strings blown themselves through long long reeds near the river wound too tight
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Lit candles dimly
The artist portrayed a rotund sky
In little pointed stars and artificial moonlight
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The turtles the water moccasins the algae blankets
The rocks where strangers struggle
The strangers reaching their hands to pull you up as you slip into the water and down into the water again
The children who ask me what I think of their swimming
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I was inside the house where I felt the warmth, the warmth that I remembered
I reached to touch the lightly painted flower sketches hanging across from the mirror in the entryway
I turned but did not see my own reflection just those pictures hanging on little nails on the wall behind
A soft glow came from the kitchen where I glimpsed bowls and plates rinsed but still in the sink
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Oh those laggard boys

Still chasing a skirt that hadn’t been worn in ages
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For my grandmother Catherine Kennedy
CR 2010
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For Junealice Pardo-Vela passed July 4th 2010**

Without the turning of a month I remained a beautiful flower
My vase of narrow glass of narrow food and narrow light
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A rose is told
A weed indefinitely
Nameless
Timeless
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The world through brief eyes of awe
At a purposeful place
The seat of self scooting to a head within a great hall at a large table
Past errs on the side of burning
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I’m going for a controlled burn
Lamps lit far away
Fell on the floor and rolled out to a field which found a forest which waits for me
My back against the river
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1.
Once a child, I cast myself out above the playground

Legs pumping
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