Elizabeth Woody

It was bruise marks of hands that alluded to tracks of murder. Her neck was twisted too many times in short rope, and the tree too high for a small woman. “He was here.” He says, “He came to her new Man, too, and said that he was coming for him next.” The nightmare is black tongue. No footprints. The form in the room laughs, “Ha Ha, Goody!” He sees that it is vapor. Later, when he cuts her down, he knows that she came to him, to him, she laughed. The night will not make her unhappy. He had no time to hunt, since he had to bury three more brothers the next day. Car wreck on ice. The insidious soul danced across the river to entice other women to death. If he is man, he is subject to will. If one prefers Archangels, he can be cast into oblivion. That does not comfort the people and we must battle with Bell and Prayer, for the brother. This will take up the nights and the rest of our thoughts. The brother has seen the foreshadowing of events. He will bring the damned down in his fisherman’s grip into the mad boil of the river’s strength.

The irresistible and benevolent light brushes through the angel-wing begonias, the clippings of ruddy ears for the living room. Intimate motes, debris of grounded, forlorn walks, speckle through the vitreous quality of blush. As fluid lulls turn like trout backs, azure-tipped fins oscillate in the shallows, the clear floating is dizziness. Tender events are meeting halves and wholes of affinity, the recurrence of whimsy and parallel streams flush away the blockage of malaise. Incessant gratitude, pliable kindness smolders in the husk of these sweet accumulations: abalone shells, the thoughtful carvings from friends, the stone of another’s pocket, the photo of mystified moon over water, the smiles of worn chairs. Austere hopes find pleasure in lately cherished flowers. The blooms are articulate deluge, hues of delicacy. Petals parted dim renderings, the viable imprint of the blood-hot beam of light with reformed courage. Beveling the finish to suppression, the blade of choice brings the flourish of dividing while adequately doubling worth by two. Multiplying. The luminescent burning of space. The heat is a domicile as abandoned as red roses budding their ascension from stem. The sun has its own drum contenting itself with the rose heart it takes into continual rumbling. The connection of surface and hand. The great head of dark clouds finds its own place of unraveled repercussions and disruption, elsewhere, over the tall, staunch mountains of indemnity.

Filled with old lovers, in the clutch of the chair, you are a bloom of uncombed hair. With a collection of roses, bowls of mashed petals, I make a clear cup of sky. Fold away clouds. Roll up blankets of blue. I am a body of empty husks. Indian corn is in your hair, the tassels, the pollen, fertility. Indelible ink is tattooing our lungs. We speak smoke. We exchange our lunacy for reverence. Respect tornados. Windy Woman. Four Winds. We have extended the edge of expectation by merely living. You have tallied compulsion into currency. I am measured by the excitement my lips stir. I am the bin for castoffs and the weary. I wear my veil. I have no children, but you have many. You dream of heaven and they all run up to meet you.