Elise Paschen

Anna Kyle Brown. Osage. 1896-1921. Fairfax, Oklahoma. Because she died where the ravine falls into water. Because they dragged her down to the creek. In death, she wore her blue broadcloth skirt. Though frost blanketed the grass she cooled her feet in the spring. Because I turned the log with my foot. Her slippers floated downstream into the dam. Because, after the thaw, the hunters discovered her body. Because she lived without our mother. Because she had inherited head rights for oil beneath the land. She was carrying his offspring. The sheriff disguised her death as whiskey poisoning. Because, when he carved her body up, he saw the bullet hole in her skull. Because, when she was murdered, the leg clutchers bloomed. But then froze under the weight of frost. During Xtha-cka Zhi-ga Tze-the, the Killer of the Flowers Moon. I will wade across the river of the blackfish, the otter, the beaver. I will climb the bank where the willow never dies.

At times they will fly under. The dome contains jungles. Invent a sky under the dome. Creatures awake, asleep, at play, aglow: they float – unbottled genii – under the dome. Southern Belle, a splash of black, dusted with gold, dissembles,assembling, acts shy under the dome. Cattleheart, Giant Swallowtail, Clipper: sail, navigate sky high under the dome. Like confetti – a wedding – bits of Rice Paper: sheer mimicry under the dome. Magnificent Owl, in air, a pansy, it feeds, wings up, eye to eye, under the dome. Name them: Monarch, then Queen, last Viceroy. What will scientists deify under the dome? Basking against a leaf: a Banded Orange, displayed like a bowtie under the dome. A living museum. Exist to be observed: never migrate, but live, then die, under the dome. Lips, lashes, eyes. From outside in, do beings magnify under the dome? Lepidoptera. From the Greek:Scale-wing. Chrysalis. Stay, butterfly, under the dome.

The neighbor calls the Siberian Elm a “weed” tree, demands we hack it down, says the leaves overwhelm his property, the square backyard. He’s collar-and-tie. A weed tree? Branches screen buildings, subway tracks, his patch of yard. We disagree, claim back the sap, heartwood, wild bark. He declares the tree “hazardous.” We shelter under leaf-hoard, crossway for squirrels, branch house for sparrows, jays. The balcony soaks up the shade. Chatter-song drowns out cars below. Sun branches down. Leaves overwhelm. The tree will stay. We tell him “no.” Root deep through pavement,Elm.

... if thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb, Sepulch’ring an adult’ress. — William Shakespeare , King Lear He faked my death, set up this ranch far from my three daughters. Suburban hellhole. With bracelet on ankle, house- arrest. At noon the bully sun shoulders a ripe moon. In the dark soaps reign. The anchors will often flash their glitterati weddings. Not one daughter has birthed an heir. In vitro — be damned. I hose the lawn and count the cars like fish slipping their shiny chrome along asphalt. Which sparrow missed? Cordelia — my gutted heart.

— Gaetano Donizetti, “Lucia di Lammermoor” Be remote A while from malice and from murdering. — Gwendolyn Brooks water this fountain where I am yoked sun-break he holds you how once I this secret dark dagger my body rip off the collar your cage don’t wait my neck his breath these woods this water my waist his ring his grip blood sister