Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Matina L. Stamatakis


(forthcoming in YEW)

    & it is in the teeth,
its clang──
            marks of wood &
down,     as fallen soldiers are with chilled blood,

   glass is measured by its frost & red brings blue, blue
                & with it, endless blue.

I am writing this letter because liquid is no longer

       what it used to be                  & 
                          with it the mercury dips

into another winter.  I am writing as jacinth withers
                             into birds no longer.

            You are growing tight with my teeth,

& gnaw your way into me with a reckless sun. 
Breath rolls in & out of the skin, skin & then

        only the larynx
will remember your name.


In this epithelial tissue a sheen
of glass pattern mosaic silkscreened &

of dew melting into  beaker
 of stars           for    unafraid colors
blending into beasts of dawn's broach
        encountered wings
reflective wings             uncharted wings
  in their virgin sprawl
    [I've seen the vast sights of ghosts & deserts
trapped in the depths of exact mirages more beautiful than tragic]

        wings in the present dream
   in the probability of sleeping to forget reality
wings, & winged the flowering orange, the orchid
mouth & how she remains naked
the same way she was born



Return, at the nape, all indiscretions
──I've want of less pulp, & so a poem
 is naked & stands before the man clutching her insides out.  
& the man is a grasp of unscrupulous flesh
                                                 & the man
                    is not a bird by any stretch of the imagination──is not
                                        so uncommon inside her, is not

or what it was an absentee space
the monstrous growth of dark

Matina L. Stamatakis enjoys birds, and bird-related paraphernalia.

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