the video against,
all my Oh, singing?
Oh is between
saying and singing,
Oh, Oh (delight),
am I eating?
the land quite morose
the sun already,
It was April. It was May.
The next day was warmer.
Wildflowers colonized the woods,
divided into parts
by logging roads.
Goldthread lay hidden in a moist thicket
as the point of destruction
in the book of Luke
when the angel Gabriel announces
the birth of Christ,
a passage I had read theatrically
from the walnut pulpit
of the First Presbyterian church
one Christmas Eve
in a poodle skirt
and torn-up cardigan,
my skin painted witch green
and a spider web drawn
in liquid black eye-liner
on the round of my shoulder.
A field out past the thicket
turned me into a gymnast,
one foot planted in the wild grass,
the other pointed toward the sky.
I held my pose
with the patient determination
of a sundial
until Grandma called me home
for a dinner of chicken dumplings.
Squirrels—vermin! I belted—,
all that went undisclosed
enlivened the dirt path back
where the wary red fox
napped after his meal.
It’s almost evening in my little landscape.
The letters we expected
have not yet arrived.
Up, then down, then after another warm day
up again, the river’s waters
dislodged an original boulder,
sending it downstream with the cabin shutter
and the pine tree struck by lightning,
down through the banks shaped by history
to where the Hudson River
tumbles over the paper mill’s dam
and factory smoke rises into clouds
drifting at different heights over their shadows.
They come around as punks to the icy foyer
where names are not the horizon of being
and run (Wonderful!)
and run (Say it!)
and run (Run! Run!)
the slick black street so real
a history, calendaresque landscape,
mountains draped over shoulderpads,
the broach of a finch piercing the limb,
a lapel: say it!
The limb (the lapel!)
Say it, say it:
artifice enlivens me;
I also wanted life.
What I love is the trees wet with day—
I die before them.
And the gold, golden lair,
a collective, peremptory identity.
Could you be action (Ghosts!)
Could you be more than we know (Ghosts!) They come around as
waves, they are waves,
coursing through a virtual rocking chair
if life is a house.
Once the revolutions were nothing but themselves.
You eagerly give away my likes
to the pink dash of the roseate spoonbill,
a sign of desire
in what they taught us was the only sky.
E. Parker Phillips is a writer and educator focusing on creativity, gender & sexuality, and kink. Parker's work has appeared in Sliver of Stone, Jai-Alai magazine and Hinchas de Poesia and is forthcoming from Voluble. Parker has performed at the Miami Book Fair as well as BFI's Weird Miami BusTour. She/they make a living as a BDSM service provider currently based in Miami.