& in Open, Marvel - Felicia Zamora Free Verse Editions

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Corman,

      from “There Are Things to Be Said”

      Here where the poem becomes

      ladders again,

      the little girl returned with candy

      & a nearly on her lips

      —Joshua Marie Wilkinson,

      Lug Your Careless Body Out of the Careful Dusk

      empty haunt; inlet

      A Long Road Never Takes Us

      Fish poke the surface, entice

      ripples to hoard the shore, release,

      hoard again. The light shifts

      everything here. Bug spray in my hair,

      hummingbird at the picnic table, the clouds

      lulling under their transformative bellies—

      there has always and never been this—

      longing of a mind carried in a body

      here. The sun touches my shoulder, old friends

      gathering at one of the lake’s many mouths

      luring all senses; caught. The wash of waves,

      sectioned and small, so persistent: the body

      functioning without my consent.

      I spent my whole life neglecting the lap

      in my ears, half listening out of body

      of water; drowning in my own fluid-filled spaces.

      The kayaker’s need of water’s drift: my need

      to witness. Infinite rhythms we share

      and scavenge. The crows scale the Ponderosas

      tip to tip—games in birds’ eyes. I want to believe

      a long road never takes us. We are led

      with wings and tympani and slick wet

      inside and out. The canoe wears its name

      Old Town— red and passionate on the bank;

      footprints trail away and to: abandon

      casts no reflection in late summer’s glow.

      Five months out of winter’s gait

      empty will haunt this inlet again. An unknown

      tune from the boy behind me. Hums still

      as his grandfather baits his line; I might know

      how, escapes him. Silence and toil. The ever sway

      of small legs on a bench—reaching.

      At Last Summer Let Go

      The leaves in descent yellow

      behind your back. Mystery

      in the senses we ignore. Caught

      just out of reach: the balloon,

      string-less and wind swept forgets. We

      open-palmed, stars paint galaxies

      at the back of our pupils. Collection

      until shutter. To undo the heavens

      this brain harbors with guilt

      cage and key in constant turn, a habitué

      of adorning everything with wings.

      Sacrament

      Before tolls deepen the landscape,

      the handshakes, the sorry stitching

      in furrowed brows, the church settles

      & you hear the steeple sigh. Air steps

      closer to you, like a child approaches,

      hesitant, question on her lips. To grow here—

      a town no bigger than a thumb, you tasted

      the Body & licked your teeth after wine.

      What you’ve done & undone

      for sacrament. As a child you chanted

      the Nicene Creed, while you undressed

      a boy across from you with fervid pupils

      & tingles between your thighs. Confirmation

      liturgy commensal of body & blood: faith

      in the pastor’s lack of telepathy. Innocence

      laired in your temporal lobe, along with lust

      & palms in sweat, aware of both.

      You return to rows of slotted boxes;

      parishioners’’ names: Cleveland; Lettow; Grimes—

      small spaces of keeping. Places defined

      by brood & lineage. Your fingers trail openings

      & fall into hollow drum, drum. Your name

      once aperture, an invitation; vow. Distance &

      years untie the knot of place to you. Unbound

      between aisles of pews, you spectator

      arrive at The Last Supper, heavy frame in dip

      offsets the scene. Your eyes swallow you

      back to the kitchen table, to each stroke

      of your mother’s hand, outlined gently; changing

      brushes; capped colors labeled 1-11; a guided

      masterpiece. Grandma Evelyn peering over shoulder;

      unction in a simple squeeze, “A fine addition

      to any home”. Home: four letters burnt

      into the underside of each rib; vestige

      drug with us, round & round. Dizzying affair.

      Are we called—how instinct of V

      dwells in the goose? Are we called home

      ventricles feeding heart? O, duel system

      circulating us. These bells, someday

      will be yours. These bells

      already yours. & home is a small round lid

      paint drying inside. & with water

      so elemental, discovery & rediscovery:

      carillon batons & pedals play

      by ghosts & echoes of ghosts.

      Caught in Diastole

      Mist exhales the foothills—up and over saturates, dissipates

      and lilacs and moist; twigs and pods strewn: this becoming under other

      held in a gentle roll. Brontide in the lightening flash mimics

      the cardiac cycle—here again, we caught in diastole

      filling, filling, until our walls cave us, change our shape,

      require we purge the hoard. The body knows forgiveness

      in the senses: odorant molecules of rain carry

      promises in the glomerulus; our eyes in dance. Jealous

      sky gathers and gathers, dilation keeps us

      longing for—elements imbibing until…elements

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