by Caroline Crew
Tell me about the red galaxies. Tell me it's ok to want them. Show me how an apple is a dead star. Wreckage is brilliance. Show me how you eat light because it left you on that island in the Pacific. Let me feel what monochrome means when it means all that you see. The kids in the park are not ghosts, neither are the shadows on the back wall of the office. Any shape is not a ghost and you still cannot see gravity. I can't lure you anywhere with fire. Tell me about dead stars and I'll start the slow burn. How black box recorders are really orange is how the sun bathes none of us gold for free.
poem for the black life that never fully bloomed
Rendered in the soft memory it's sunset time.
The bleach starts to smell good, the air
is slowly pixelated. The floor is an envelope
for you. Where do you want to go? I don't
have a home town. Not that I wasn't born
it just didn't happen all at once
and the co-ordinates are fluid. Take one:
grey ocean. Take two: grey ocean,
black rock. This continues with occasional
green flair, and that one time with towering
glass. Cut the montage. What life is so
loudly soundtracked? Solar flares crack
the radio, the news is broken science.
You make science come alive and Alice
it won't go back in your pocket.
If there's an apocalypse, good luck.
But we make our own luck, and the bet
is whether we are imploding or exploding.
Already I can't explain the sky in solid terms so let's take this waste of breath and blow your eyes up like balloons. How many books write what it's like up there is how many flowers have died as fruit for us. Everyone eats beauty. How else will I know what colour the room is where all my previous lovers are held in the metaphor. I am not saying this is heaven. Heaven is another space where body heat doesn't happen and what can we comprehend without it. Skin is the language of heat. You don't want to go into the mountains it'll get you closer to the storm. This is not a joke. A joke would be knock knock it's the door to the red room.
flora and fauna for patrick
This is a documentary: my high school sweetheart (if we'd gone to high school) drives in the yard. I am in blue-white polka dots and red nail polish. There is a baby lodged on my hip who is getting heavy and my hair is plaited. This is the farm I fled, and I am cameoing in a different edition. I never usually wear red polish. He says I grew you like a hot house pineapple. I dreamed twins. But you got the contrast right. Does the child sing? She sings. She is an alligator singing because she is not free. Daughter only of the Gulf Stream, lit with whelk shells. We were always in the bayou except it is mud and the shoreline isn't far. She is blue eyed and that's not right. I hand her back to my sister. In the dream you waited for me in the tractor barn. There are only mice in there, they're after the wheat. Nothing is after you. Nothing comes after our movie.