that what is frozen roars for eternity (and that’s too much for us) while gashes in our wrists will bleed ceaseless, fluttering crimson ribbons.
He surfaced in our Moment of Greatest Need, taking one of our soft hands in both of His, holding low branches aside, pointing out a thick root to step over
and with Him as slow, tedious guide we’ve crossed this forest ever since, far too obedient to ask where it ends but in silence
wondering, might that roar have been more bearable than we thought? Could we not try that place, one more time? There at least
Death cannot be so much as grasped
amid its din.
Elizabeth Bolton is a poet, writer and PhD student at the University of Toronto where she studies writing and the brain. She grew up in northern California and earned her Bachelor's degree from U.C. Berkeley. Her poetry has appeared in NoD Magazine and the Miracle Monocle, and her fiction is included in a forthcoming anthology of experimental fiction published by New Urge Books.
He made it possible. He was formerly a fabulist.
He was faceless, but he was ugly, graceless
and he made everything disappear.
aligning
as fingers
deftly dance
on checkered
smooth plastic
disco stage
Adam’s countenance: beer cask-heavy
his eyes: glazed shallots
his smile: a split itself
Now take away the need
for moisture and the deteriorating
qualities of autumn. The veins
and stems will release as well.
Take away the release. Take
away the seasons.
When Taylor Swift was at the gym in Japan
she watched the muscled back of a man
moving up and down a heavy machine
made by other heavy machines for men.
of spontaneous human combustion,
of pictures with the Cherry Hill Mall Santa,
of a stapler after getting my wrist stuck to my teacher’s green bulletin board,
and on the tv
a drag queen
sharing her recipe
for sun tea
asks us if we want to
watch her take a break
and we take a break
Honeywell closed their Minnesota plant quietly
and the addition of warning stickers on album covers
would save the children along with D.A.R.E., Nancy
and Tipper directing the conversation, for some reason.
I read, I traveled, I, Lina, thief’s daughter, a discarded toy by the campfire
at night, my planets – burned by sparks,
burned by coincidences, in my eyelashes – stalagmites of ashes.
Because Phil Collins is for fools and old ladies.
Because the ocean’s too wide a body of water
for a commando to cross alone. Because gentlemen
never kiss and tell, and soldiers never share
their kill count. Because you teach the meaning
of words like ‘amorous’ and ‘varnish’ and ‘leave.’