The babies came out silent Our talk was over It might still be meal two or three Meal one: the slow cry ing of having had a toothache on the moon
Why in Ohio is it still this thing you said A leaf is in pain A footprint isn't
toward the work of others - ~~~~~ through a small ghost poems, Chelsea Dingman The University of Georgia Press, 2020 Chelsea Dingman is a poet who makes you feel as if you’ve entered the dream a little early. Otherness is something that happens to others, and pain hurts in two places at once. In through a small ghost, it is this meditative displacement that allows the work to both worship and curse the prolonged destiny of its sudden and devastating inheritance. Be it a projected disappearance or a vanishing root, Dingman identifies first the caller of the form that keeps us from so many shapes, and then the unreal form itself. As any breathing in this held verse might poke a hole in the haunting and send a smoke ring to show the fog how its wheels have come off, the poems keep their witness on the made from…
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the resurrected are most of the time asleep - sorry, city - sorry very city
The flat curiosity of our girlhood's insects. Age-appropriate infants with no self-esteem. The grey math of being clothed. The pink of being dressed - Again the wrong person forgetting my death
Each place I go is from Ohio. Mirror softens mirror. A leatherback sea turtle drops its angel. I don't think art is working.
Snow in the knee A normal church Pain dog and helicopter pain A timestamp there's nothing more god
I tell it what I tell my stomach. If I die, you die. There are limits to what the past can do. I had a kid, once. Insects were invisible. My mom was a face turning two from god. Never, worm, do I know where to start. Nightfall, and the number of hands I’ve collected hasn’t changed. Brother still kicks himself for the nine months he couldn’t film. The best thing he wrote down had in it a father, who’d never seen a wheelchair, setting a trap for a wheelchair. It is like me to wait.
No one in the elevator when it dies - By x-ray I mean many stars will find my son - I'd have bread were it not for this door too briefly awake
Needles hiding from a blank swan. The plastic razors of a prop angel. No one to cry ghost. The fingernail as grief's only idea. forget, forget. In that order
