Rachel Moritz • Minneapolis,
MN | WinterRed
About the Writer
Moritz has poems appearing or forthcoming in Colorado
Review, Denver Quarterly, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Indiana
Review and other journals. Her poetry chapbook, The
Winchester Monologues, won the 2005 New Michigan Press Competition.
She lives in Minneapolis, where she edits WinteRed Press, a chaplet
publisher of innovative poetry.
Here’s a cavern of bone & its corrugate host
the red crown
Here’s a gorgeous entreaty of shell, the houses within houses
heave along your back, pearl
of spiraling what
can I say,
I feel as if I’m shrugging you off, Earth
all of what isn’t useful
Bark canals the boughs of an ear
Mollusks lineated by more of themselves
Skulls of earth from consulate clouds
cap with molded visor
(I’ve made a siren
with my eyes)
But leaping between us there
is no confluence
Sound takes place
in a ridden, long hello where
I am & what kind of hollowing comes out
the stream of your mouth
In the body we listened to a desiccate
Who bayed and made us fallow. Who
stretched us, impregnate tarps sitting
in snow. Each interior’s sonic stiletto.
In the whole wave as it applied to life,
there was this question. In the paperous
skin on the penis left. In the uterine clam shell
As life is lived, as death is known forever
in the mind. As they made us,
treading our girded lights.
The nerves branched a bleached ivy, arterial
paint shocked through the brained man’s voice box, flayed
And we were hooked, plastinate as stars and
non-recurrent any longer.
In the body we were as what was seen and known
forever in the mind. We had wished this idea of time
would drain our cells and leave us.
[Mackerel clouds in reverse]
Late in the night, or so in the middle. A barge with its
sacrificial lights electrifies the lake.
As a matter of quantity, how much do you love your little
question? She makes but scant breath through the window pane,
undresses her etheric body rendered as she was. The lake,
passage past the stuck point around her, but a smallish distance
in the mind. A vast measuring! Red scaffolds of clouds, the
morning rocks as granite circles. How much is your emotion
eating salt from their weathered skin, lining a vaporous
white witness? Past but the visible furrow, sand an object
who erases itself. As you can’t swallow in your throat
either exiting or digest. I mean, returning your question
with some imprint of yes.
[Between still and moving water]
As you were standing on the boundary or as you were of that bald
lineation. Renaming the sound of the bell across the lake, green
as the lawn delivered holy. How you dragged from the moss-embalmed
water its wild face. On a path with both legs as if spooned from
the fertile concave. Sound’s inner dusk. Synapse of boarding.
You carried the bell down those deft and irrevocable stairs. Passed
the sentence of doubt and kept moving.