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“We are ghosts in Victorian gowns,
lilac apparitions with parasols…”
―
lilac apparitions with parasols…”
―
“I am electric.”
―
―
“after Neruda
a bronze song, something undone, salvia,
a crushed butterfly.
It is the blood on a light bulb, the seventh sadness,
a fluctuation that closes oceans and eyes.
The vermilion and solitary luminary
shimmies and singes the feathers of the aviary.
Moon, the clock’s word, dear mother, ruin, rain.
— Simone Muench, “Elegy for the Unsaid,” Lampblack & Ash: Poems. (Sarabande Books; First Edition edition November 1, 2005)”
― Lampblack & Ash: Poems
a bronze song, something undone, salvia,
a crushed butterfly.
It is the blood on a light bulb, the seventh sadness,
a fluctuation that closes oceans and eyes.
The vermilion and solitary luminary
shimmies and singes the feathers of the aviary.
Moon, the clock’s word, dear mother, ruin, rain.
— Simone Muench, “Elegy for the Unsaid,” Lampblack & Ash: Poems. (Sarabande Books; First Edition edition November 1, 2005)”
― Lampblack & Ash: Poems
“Freeze Frame, with Forsynthia
You will bind me
in my aquarelle, my skin
blue as Canterbury bells. Call me
mademoiselle before you execute, like the hand-
tinted photo of the dancer, Margarete Gertrude Zelle, arms
scissoring the air, fending bullets and flowers as she pirouettes.
You will find me
in the zero hour sipping
a whiskey sour with a cherry, my hair
yellow, not sallowed or frizzed like the Bishop's flower.
In a bell-shaped dress trimmed in snow-white florets, I smell
of fever, soil as I pose in the doorcase. You refer to me as daughter
of gnawed bones
I am property of _______.
A profile in the slanted rain. I am
versatile. You call me Lily of the Nile, fingering
umbels as you scour the floor in search of my shadow. Hours
sift and flow and form a canted frame where you lean one elbow
statuesque as a window
sash. You've captured me,
you say, mid-bloom, in your eye
frame, in the process of photograph and pose
and polyphonic prose, the kitchen lit by my ante-
bellum skirt, the yellow spikes of forsythia going up in flame.
Simone Muench, Notebook. Knife. Mentholatum. (New Michigan Press 2003)”
― Notebook. Knife. Mentholatum.
You will bind me
in my aquarelle, my skin
blue as Canterbury bells. Call me
mademoiselle before you execute, like the hand-
tinted photo of the dancer, Margarete Gertrude Zelle, arms
scissoring the air, fending bullets and flowers as she pirouettes.
You will find me
in the zero hour sipping
a whiskey sour with a cherry, my hair
yellow, not sallowed or frizzed like the Bishop's flower.
In a bell-shaped dress trimmed in snow-white florets, I smell
of fever, soil as I pose in the doorcase. You refer to me as daughter
of gnawed bones
I am property of _______.
A profile in the slanted rain. I am
versatile. You call me Lily of the Nile, fingering
umbels as you scour the floor in search of my shadow. Hours
sift and flow and form a canted frame where you lean one elbow
statuesque as a window
sash. You've captured me,
you say, mid-bloom, in your eye
frame, in the process of photograph and pose
and polyphonic prose, the kitchen lit by my ante-
bellum skirt, the yellow spikes of forsythia going up in flame.
Simone Muench, Notebook. Knife. Mentholatum. (New Michigan Press 2003)”
― Notebook. Knife. Mentholatum.
