Monday, February 16, 2015

Suzanne Mercury

Red Honeysuckle





Rabbit, Memory



A change of wind, or did I move


       too suddenly this time


                     a rabbit runs in and then out of sight


runs into the rain-soaked weeds, there, like this


       permanently startled  at the edge of one place


                                                             among many places.


The only thing moving between the light


                                                 and the grass


It is the light between grass.


Machinery of legs,
              soundless, sudden.


As when its feet, running          easily turn the earth


                      as if to red jasper


                 as if to evening, changing its way


                                    into black, heightened by longing


I want its weight to be enough


       to keep me


                      on the earth longer.


This is the kick:           


Those legs are powerful            amplified


                           to the size of our strangeness.


Lengthening,


               lengthening as it runs




My Petit Hôtel



The interior is the empty carapace of a crab


                  reduced to paper and breath        almost cerulean


Each room curled around the other,


expanding in precise increments.


A claw.        


Light folding in the corners.


You can get lost here


                               unseen hands have stolen your coat


leaving behind  child’s


                   baptismal gown       and the footprints of birds.


You can fly by yourself


           go with your dreams entangled in your hair.




Stele For My Brother



My brother comes to me, hands held out.  There are pine needles


cupped in his palm, arranged in the shape


of a bird.


                  Some things are like this:  Asleep, lit up


in the hundred shades of dark that exist only in dreams,


the ghosts of  birds flying away at will.


                                                       He does not speak:


But then he calls me by my childhood name:


Suzie, this is our father, he says.


He holds up the pine needles, hands extended


giving them to me.


                    Dark against dark, a fish that shines suddenly


showing its eyes before turning, and then


         the leaf-moving light on his hands.


But I am hesitant to take them from him:


the pine needles would become disordered,


              no longer in the shape of a bird, and thus


                                                     no longer our father.


          I will never get used to these damned resurrections


Gravity gets us all in the end               And in the end


We are a pine needles in a dream


                     looking frantically for the switch that always keeps moving


           around, and that will make it all happen again


Knock, knock


Who’s there?


It’s me, Dad


It’s me Dad who?


Dad, why does God torture us?


Suzie, the happiest people are the ones who don’t ask these damned questions. Also there is no God. I can verify that since I am dead


— Oh. Goodnight then


— Goodnight




Bluefish



When I think of the bluefish, I see it pushing


against the wave, holding the immensity of the sky inside.


Its gills flap open then shut     and become


part of the face.


                                Hunger brings it to the surface,


to the place between


black and silver and black coming off against the wave.


We try to hide our atrocities, and fail         insatiable.


We say we want    other worlds


            red at the center


       breaking the surface, the long fin            extended


                                                    then vanishing.


Something made by a planet, it is the star, staring back at us,


wave inside wave        inside


clear, inside


                    unsolved




Modern Moonlight



And the full moon, a bright muscle in summer,


                                                                  a smear of silver in the sky, there.


Let me make a map to it with spider thread:


Its shadow shines beneath the beneath


                                                               and the beneath of it all


keeping me awake and transcendent.


The moon is fast, and show through as
         
          a root pressed against glass  


          refusing confinement


And the wind pounding the screen open and shut against the doorjamb calls out:


                If only, if only    then


                            Goodbye, goodbye


How far we run together in one night,


pulling the sea behind us.


The machinery is wonderful. One lever does it all!


How bright we are for awhile here,


and for awhile       how brief         brief


              and so bright      until lost, whited out, to


                                       the sun’s duration.




From Variations on the Metaphysical

(A cutout poem, based upon the work of George Herbert; huge liberties taken)


O Mortal Heat  


              O Flame


Less fire:


                 Consume our World:


And such as our Lust


kindled                 shall leave us panting


Heart upon heart devoured


                   And devoured again:


Then shall our inventions


     Send fire again        O flame!


             Our eyes see dust          blown kind


To our wits shall we bow and rise


Touch lips and


        Sing praise with


                            our eyes.



originally published in Summer Stock



Suzanne Mercury lives in Boston where she she is an impassioned flânuer, gardener, lucid dreamer, and maker of strange objects.


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