Disembodunent as Wired through a Renaissance Motet to Warn with Voices of Angels: Don’t Hold Your Breath
eagle slithers off its coin into the waiting hand of God. We spoon,
magnetically, and freeze there, stunned by the applause. And soon a
chilly nimbus glyphs congealing lushness with a burst of newborn
computations. The stutterer’s c-c-c-curse resounds through the bright
night to seep like damp into the bones of waiting refugees. Deep inside
the astrodome our lazy fight toward new desires flares up with a sudden
whisper or a faint, metallic glint to mutter, “If you love her, kiss
her.” Sentiment to flood the sperm bank with remembrance of beds unmade
by mother love. And just as slow the bald spot spreads straight through
the seraphim and molten clouds get tangled up in Shanya’s parachute.
She hits the ground in Arkansas, her failures scaring the bejesus out
of the theatre crowd who take her for a readymade. But she has only
lost six teeth and smiles:
In Kashmir a missing body is recovered.
Dead white beneath its burka the pink canary shudders.
by Elizabeth Marie Young
published by Word for/ Word