I pull away from the bruise. There is no bruise. It’s been said that language itself is a bruise, a collection of things to be feared. There is no bruise. I put off the pain. The pain returns. The body burns, as if in a fire, largely having been heated in winter by the obsolete feeling of the no. There is no no. I pull away from the no. The no, not having been part of the story, can’t really comment on anything. There are no people. There are people. Someone lights the proper way forward, as if in modernity, and I pull away from that. Why go? Someone on the other side of the ocean would pen a marinade and drink it down for dinner. I eat. There is no food. I see. There is no sight. I put away the bruise. Then, all these things are and are not, yet more are than not, suddenly seeming so light, as if making me leave them behind to be freer. ** I sit with the place. Removed: darts from the pierce & punch. The silence. * I move to the city. Embraced: time past absolutes, the froth of new desires. The noise and music alive. * Tomorrow, a reunion. To one side, a car & a bottle of wine. How did I learn to see? ** I write the script: stage left = synergy while stage right is the path to the other side of the maelstrom. That’s right, son of right, the one with the rose in her teeth and the necklace made of slipstreams and the mapmaker’s iota of silk and ruse. Synergy? You ask with a pulse if you are allowed to join me. You knock. I think, but not for too long. ** In the Balance As love soothes me warm, I think of new words for things, almost in translation. The quince is gone. The dark has faded. “I think it’s not Christmas” becomes a way of glancing toward sea, almost entirely. See that bed? It’s not empty. See that peach? It’s eaten. See that cart of apples? Each one, weeping and watered, is out of the gate, summered. In the morning, he’s still there, but it’s not primitive. The lock may turn when emergency arises, but I prefer emergence and song, their quiet humming that takes threads and pretends at clothes. ** In the end of things In the beginning of things From where you were From where we meet again The rose is crushed by the lamb The lamb becomes the lion The lion becomes the lover The lover is pure desire You vilify his pure The rose is nothing if not nothing The body is almost broken The hand is on your belly His hand is below your belly His face is pressed to yours You hold his hand in peace You want to comfort him The lover becomes the friend The lover becomes the sister The lover becomes the friend
Laura Carter is a poet residing in Atlanta, Georgia where she finished her grad degree in 2007. Since then, she has published about eight chapbooks, including three with Dancing Girl press out of Chicago.