They Will Sew the Blue Sail

from Elegy for a Lady: Sky-Goer | Brooke Ellsworth


Dear Dangerous Mountains, it would never last. You were never thought of as a shock. Realize that you were of necessity. I should be married to a Whole Countryside, well-keeping me from dying. Or wounded less. Keep the knife. Bleeding on the sheets. That is no gift.

The Twilight Language

All this is in me, Dakini, simply terrified of an operation. Your youth and your ambitions. Snap your head. Cool nerve right up to the alone. Open the shower curtains and wild animals jump. She was never. Never. Something. She was throaty, almost a vulgar laugh. The bellowing can bend her. She even slaps her thigh like a comedian. It pulls me down to the sidewalk. Exploded laughing just as the waiter was lowering my milk, or lemon? Man. Lemon, yes. I promise I’ll change, Lemon.

“Wriggle Wriggle Wriggle.”

It’s more like fusing, this whole pointless business. Like emptying a pail and filling it again, everyday. He glances around (cool nerve) right up to the eyes closing. Alone. Opening the shower up there. Looks up, yes, like her name is Throaty and she’s back for seconds. Almost vulgar and pulls me down. Explosively. An exploded laughing, just as the asking sound. Oh, yes. But not a Man Yes. At my age, it dies for a few days.

Spring How

Yes, there was the fusing. The sun, the whole thing housed, after I emptied the pail to throw you away. It can’t be helped. “I warned her,” I said. I said a case of the blunt and ugly and it didn’t stamp. She wanted thousands of exactly all the big day. Wrapped headlessly. The hedon and dolor. On the contrary, she to be dressed as Anne. 20 suns at your mouth.