from Some Perilous Thing
What Edna Said
(nods to Tim Earley and Robert Creeley)
…..coterie of blight. mercy on me surface hyena
a medial caesura wrenched up in pancreatic
fortunes that separate sky from surface and
surface from fistules of paint and the fistulas
of darkwish which uncle lordy define as a
self-reified mewling among the pennyroyal
and all that which is not pennyroyal such as perditions.
Mercy on Edna. Mercy on the faces of
the divine mime and its mimesis.
Mercy on the cytokinesis in the eggs of
those mothers. Companies comin over.
Cover the rusted out oven. Cover the
cockatrice staring balefully from the
corner of the room. Cover your face
with cheesecloth. Cover the fuck stains
beleagured by antiseptic juices from
the dog salivating over your meat
doppelganger. Bleach the apparition already
heuristically enmeshed in cranial ganglia
tacked to the wall, ganglia bunched up like
Christmas lights in the boredom closet. Aleatory
murder cuneiform writ large on the china
is all boxed up and uncle lordy gazing out
the window wondering if those Nazi gentlemen
be back soon or if they just stop off in town for
a sandwich. Scars like plumage budding out
their faces like those perditions were meant
to be bestial reliquaries for the little one’s
birthday party. Imagine, now then in wonder,
at evening, at the last small entrance of the night,
my mother calls it, and I call it my father.
With angry face, with no rights, with impetuosity
and sterile vision— and a great wind we ride!
would be how that goes down. For the boy and
uncle lordy riding him like a chimp across the desert,
that darkwish opening up and out and illuminating all
the angels dressed up like Hessians for the noose party.
No food. No bitch pants got an orange in it even, and
they know your feelings are important to you, so….
No sensation left a sepulcher under the outhouse like
was promised. Nobody give a damn about the sky
or the surface and wether its blood got froze
that one time Edna walked out of the plane
into the air. To see if it had that stench
still from the Georgia swamps, she told me later.
* * *
Jessica B. Weisenfels lives in rural Arkansas where she accumulates chronic diseases and steals language from her children. Her work may be found in Sink Review and E-ratio. She has work forthcoming from Fence.