Eating is magic. Hunger a rabbit removed from its environment. I can make some sense now, I think, of death. Of a grandmother’s life of cooking and loss. We wore our frostbitten noses. Did things with frogs might an infant laugh on the inside where a nothing was still in boxes. Took from blood
its blue
now. Which was wrong.
two
Ohio
types
of sleep
the bee
that stung
my bee
And what would you have me say? That I feel it was given to another, the meaning of my hidden life? We name people every day. Our yearning, overlong. Our mother’s mothering of poets and of the creatures they can’t use. This priest with an ant farm. Eating’s moral theft.
Ohio we:
save pills as a god might
the eggs
of a ghost
Metamortuary
Dylan Krieger
Nine Mile, 2020
~
Oh what smoky anatomies abound in Dylan Krieger’s Metamortuary. This is music, a fatigue learned by osmosis, and Krieger is a metamorphosister, a conductor whose verse shepherds the black from every unborn sheep into the brightness of the spiritual body’s pop ruin. Full of deconstructed wordplay and subliminal gestations, Metamortuary indicts deeply and paroles the self to a transfixed mirror where one can be seen as the two it takes to weigh a bullhorn with the incubation period of a peephole. I have not known such a humane loneliness to exist, let alone to have been created from the orphaned nothingness and plural threesome of biology, weather, and locale. Each of the book’s four sections, Dangerous Meat / Raw War / Quiet Catastrophes / Eternal End-Times, is a detached possession belonging to the same church of an absent and holy endeavor…
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The boy, before going to bed, has me kiss every toy in his room. If one is not there, it is missing, and its absence is more vaccinated god than bad child or raccoon’s eye. More mother than sister on wrist number three.
Every life is long. Honestly, I think I just wanted to see my handwriting. I sang for my children. Never cooked for my mom.
owls okay with needle sharing
would explain
Ohio
trees
The coordinates a son’s illness leaves for God. Cigarette
and a mother’s
secret
typo. Camera the consoler of miracle. Elevator worship. Our food’s invisible dark. The gag reflex of his favorite astronaut. For whom we carry
goodbye.
My son writes to me about the piece of glass they can’t find in his ear. He says it is like a dream. That he can describe its shape between the hours of this and that a.m., and its size to a newborn making a grocery list. He says they have people who look like him, which helps. Like her, which doesn’t. My writing isn’t even close. Aponia, I write, and also, ballet. Everything in the cold is cold.
Not much happens before you can say Ohio. Still, we keep quiet. Depression breaks a mother’s toes and we listen, in a stickless field, to what we hear.
It continues. The misgendering of past selves.
