Andrea Moorhead
Earth Fires
people look the other way
tripping stuttering floundering
under the glowing screens
held so closely
while the muscles of heart atrophy
asymmetrically
preferring to weight the eastern side of
the body with greater force
while the west continues to burn
each eye glowing glaring
reigniting
what lies just outside the heart.
While Reading
next to the woodshed
and your mind slides
fires caught in the leaves still attached
wavering while the pages turn
removing any doubt as to the coming
disappearance of these words
the saturated burden of stone
falling
from the roof
from the jaws of sleeping tigers
from the print of ink
drying in the desert wind.
On the coast
the axis of rain shifts
when you swim too far out
when the sand shrinks from heavy tides
water flowing backwards against the rocks
another way of exposing the land
the flat sheered surface of rock
moving mauve under the pungent rind
of an early sun.
Falling from
an enormous height, only wings to save you and the appearance of feathers is still locked in your
mind, hidden in the folds of dreaming slumber, in the still, stark forgiveness of matter recrystallized
as a silken lining to thought, vibrations around the eyes, a swelling at the mouth of the river, water
moves against the light, and you can't fall any farther, the light is molten, the light is silent, and your
wings cover the space, shielding your heart, while your body burns from above.
Branches at Night
Are you still sleeping in snow, without anticipating the cobalt darkness, the crystalline skies that
deceive speech, render the pattern of sounds otherworldly? Are you still swimming out to sea in the green dark, the heaviness you had not anticipated? Or while the mist rises have you finally left
without reminding anyone of your departure, turning the pages too quickly, the burr of paper
rustling, slipping, and gliding against your fingers? This comes as no surprise; this is nothing unusual
for you, leaving abruptly as if the last comment were to be suspended for an indefinite time,
unmarked by the passage of daily events, the dull whirr of tires on dirt roads.We haven't gone out
to inspect the snow. There still might be traces, even though the snow pack has shifted and the wind
is high tonight, disturbing the windows, rattling against the outside lights, filtering slowly through
the pores of your skin.
Andrea Moorhead, born in Buffalo, New York, is the publisher of the prestigious international magazine, Osiris. Her most recent book is The Carver's Dream (Red Dragon Fly Press). Her poems have appeared in journals such as Abraxas, Great River Review, The Bitter Oleander, Phoenix, Poetry Salzburg Review, and elsewhere.