Heir Apparent

Issue #27: September 2014

Thank You for the Afterlight | Gillian Conoley

the yellow tinged with cyan  primal coat 

 the gingerale, a mother figure at first all face

   the existence that is  a continuance

and extinction, a malted or smoothie

 of the brain freeze, long spinal stretch, and ice age of knowing you, Creator

rile and denial of the human animal

 buzz saw and honeybee of our correspondence

I reacted to

not unregretfully,  it was 

        carried back

     unsigned I am

writing you  no more

  often lies run

a little backwards

in this missive oblivion

where synapse thinks it saw a spirit

equators shiver

across to one another

    golden tanager and cock-of-the-block

roareth  in the revolution

   on the earth’s surface   I know

moment to moment  half

to one third of all thought

is cat vomit really in the middle of the night

 while it was supposed to be medicinal

to eat the grass  this bristly

prelapsarian keyhole of a hut where my finger

lingers  as you   row by

 is that all

to perception  You are like

privileged Ivy League

assessing me I am


white thing

  that little eggshell still stuck on my blouse

I cracked out of you I see that now

 in this skirt rose-splashed, bereft of aura

I love my tiny part Neanderthal DNA

 left, cast-off I go bootless into lyric structures

dump’s clear containers

 There may have been someone who loved you

more than you loved saving

  that’s how you got on this road

and so disfigured

 in land, in word

 standing like a crucifix on a porch while the cars go by

Where to put last century’s threadbare Sunday  dress with arms uplift

and begin  to strut a bit

between star and tar

  Celestial nest, also like stress, hormone, breathing with high peaks

skeletal sensory too, combustible planetarium, 

  an interstitial musculature where

ceiling angels peel and flake a weather

turned glassy in which you

 are the shaken narrator  bundled up

taking a few trips around the block, running one loose hand over

 the increasingly familiar hedges 

  for what have you done

 that so many run to surround and warm

you, a boy and girl so porous with the air,

 lunar, earthly, I try very hard to never close the parenthesis on you, 

it’s one way to atone

 for perhaps you are just swimming

slowly  to another scribe waiting

 sort of perpendicularly  in the lake near the shore

maybe that’s what 

   time is

under shaded oak tree’s  co-substantiates

the numbers of the house  we come to find

all the while realism’s steady message—

 someone really loves someone  and then doesn’t—

someone can almost read a name

  your sinister math these fits and starts get chalked

 then smudged away

into grey otherworldly cloud

 on sidewalk’s cracked bodice

despite great gusts of pressure