Melissa Kwasny
Contributions

Melissa Kwasny is the author of four books of poetry: The Nine Senses (forthcoming from Milkweed Editions in 2011), Reading Novalis in Montana, Thistle, and The Archival Birds. She is also the editor of Toward the Open Field: Poets on the Art of Poetry 1800-1950 and co-editor, with M.L. Smoker, of I Go To the Ruined Place: Contemporary Poems in Defense of Global Human Rights. She lives outside Jefferson City, Montana.

Lost Pictograph

after Michael Ondaatje

The light darkened, stained to the thin color of Chinese tea, then lost its muscle and unraveled. Dust covering the shine we lost on surfaces. We lost, too, some will, never our strong suit. Disturbing, the children who, once we have mentioned the word “grenade,” cannot think about anything else. We lost: our facility to stand in front of people, prepare ourselves for the event. While the others wound strips of deer hide round the feather stems. We lost: a comfort alone in our own house. On national shame: you don’t see it much here, but it’s bleak everywhere else. Weed scratching against weed on the dry plains. We lost two days to the snow geese, driving to them for hours, then watching their singular white drift. The way a flock becomes a line that turns cursive. Do we know what the winter is? Isolate, long, searching futilely for a nest for our blue eggs. Almost losing our memory that there are leaves.

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Petroglyph: Bird with Speech Symbol


Gestures in the willow limbs: chimestones, plummets. Where there is land birds will come back with grasses. Speak to everything. What kind of echo chamber can you create? The fire still burning low in the basement. Or, as I did, spend an hour outside under the wide brim of sky which scientists—scientists, what an old-fashioned word!—say no artificial spectrum can match. We are entering a contest called “The Eskimo’s Names for Snow.” Flake by flake, we are building a ladder. Closer to the language on the ridgeline of gray pines, breathing out their colorless air. On the radio, a man is speaking of light, how it enters predominantly through the eye, but there have also been instances of it entering behind the knee and thus effecting its transformation of the cells. The house is closed. The walls opaque. And then the windows, the doors begin to glow. One sees them now, can go to them and open them. Scintilla: the least trace. To make light of matter. The tamer birds, their shadow-worts on the ground. Like seed-casks, like the after effect of laughter.