—an ode to Ascendosphere 42 by Eva Lundsager
Up the earth split
and out spit
a fount of steam.
Though where it rose
it seemed the toes
of two feet
almost met
the effect was really
clouds of steam
and the ominous
color of wet cement
with the same pooling
tarnished silver gets—
all this event
and no wonder
we let slip
our molten core.
Allow for a boy
on his wide range
who fashions lassos
from stripped ostrich feathers.
Even on his slow mount, the high heat
makes life hard to see.
Noon, and the pheasants
(fat thoughts on the Pampas)
slip up suddenly,
in twos
and threes,
noosed
and so easily.
In no rush
to hold up the sky,
we lull the low hills
into folding the afternoon
across the road home.
Later, we’ll collect fog
in the valley below,
but for now I’m working
on floating my hand
on the currents
outside my window.
We feel the waves
before they arrive.
Though our thinner shells
make us more alive
to pain—we can’t help
but let the world in.
You may need
some small life
carried loosely
in the mouth
to warble the sounds
trapped in the floorboards
of your house—the hard part
will be hunting one down.
Soak the day
until its soft colors
drain and only
an outline
of all we did
remains—a memory
new enough
we still see it
the same—a vague shape
against the sun
that evening
carries away.
We saw the way
you let love in,
the little door
you opened
when the light
began to change—
and night pressed
cool against your face.
When your heart
began to swell
the way the moon will
just before rain
we saw the wide world
in your eyes again,
that wild joy
love sometimes brings.
In our other lives
we live
where daylight
tangles in the trees
and the sea breathes inland
and we fall heartfirst
into green dreams.
When the last light
of sunset
outlines our trees,
I’ll knot the violet
of evening
in your eyes.
We’ll crush
stars on the walk
to your car,
night ripe,
blue-black
as tires.
Little finger
of a moat
protect one side of this city
from another, neither better
for this strip of bay water.
One freeway
to tuck
under the other:
mother daughter,
shy toddler
of an on-ramp.
A lap of wet clothes
and a bottle,
a tramp and a backpack gang
tagging the insides
of factories.
They leave they’ll leave eventually.
Silt, settling
in your belly,
melting trench songs
men sang
in the days of industry
will fill you up, give herons
a place to step, drink
fish, and all of this,
these sad last
signs of settlement
will muddy-up.