Mark Haunschild
Maya
before they
learned the rule of sound
children
believed the rhythm of mockingbird’s song
traveled along the
bark of branch it held
through trunk’s
core
to roots in
earth across a length of forest
to toes tickled
by stiff mud
it might have
been easier that way
to see the
matter word was
carried on as it
quivered up
to you without a
name
Discovery
before the books
can burn the flames lick back into their depraved mouths
in reverse the
print press comes before fire
letters peel
themselves from pages roll back through the machines to that
untouched
pool of ink
gathering along
the ridges of engraved teeth
coming to a
screeching halt the wheel is discovered all over again
when it’s put
back on its axle
set to motion a
beginning ends
watch as the
dead undo what has led to life in the first place
we learn to kill
only after we have spoken—committed our words to history
we carry water before
we begin to grow
Possession
the spider taps
gently before it makes its entrance through
a break in the
drawn curtains—imagine the fright
it causes—the
stir of the gesture
as it ripples
across an audience of moths
to grow in a
wider swath—the dandelion—obliterated by light
springs into the
wind without a mind to guide it to the other country
without
certainty we too tested the air—flaunting
our awkward and
brittle wings
who says the
persistence of the self can be quantified
in every
molecule of atmosphere?—there is only so much
harm we can do
as we wait for the next corn harvest
that final bow
of October’s moon
after years we
come to realize
that our bodies
are wrapped in the same skin we were at odds with as
children
we dying in
gratitude
we dead in
meadows—we have only the things we have made
the songs we
muttered to the dirt—in the other country
we are empty
handed—there is nowhere else to go
If a Tree
without your
ears to enjoy it
the
twentieth-century continues to make noise
plunging through
space—animals scream for their own purpose
cry out in a
silly resistance to variation
and so the tree
falls and truly it must make a thunderous crash
the rodents and
birds as they are disheveled
by a furious air—a
doe trots with her fawns
to the next
meadow
you are not there
to feel the breaking apart
the splinter
when it snaps from the grain
theoretically we
can go back in time—if only we could
go fast enough
the moment we
would likely reach is the event horizon
at the center of
Andromeda
the vantage
point unfortunately matters—without your ears to hear it
the velocity by which
things are made new clamors
how else would
the gopher know the cat approaches downwind?
how else are we
startled awake?
Evening Address
hey you—fat
air with your mouth hung open
child bawling at
the street corner
you hook-billed
thrashers—you weeks waiting for rain
worm moon on the
wane
you leafy greens
you shades
o bucket full of
citrus—you!
pot boiling over
dear one thing
after the other
dear sobriety
to the next
giving moment—give it to me
one more time