The Objectless Place, an Ether Twist
The no one in my experience is the no one with a finger on the trigger, with a hand on the gun, the nothing that has happened since the cedar mill burned down and some places escaped within its sootblack source. The lack of a village infects us. The no one I envision could rip my heart out and does not suffer with organs himself. The father I have never met but whose profile I recognize when it comes together in the cellar of my eye from the little pieces washed ashore of me bit by bit. His ache in the algae, his mind the smashed syringe. The strength of his jaw in the wash of sand. The closed pores of his daily lack of speech gleam beautifully in any light. The other side of a bottomless, teething lake is not impossible. The geese are not already extinct. It is not the bare trees that make me wish for the many avenues of music, but the knowing that they will grow leaves again until no longer double-jointed, until all the choices are no longer frightening, until they seem one green grasp when I imagine they exist.
A Flinch of Song (Tupelo, 2009)