Four Poems by Annie Blake

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Graveyard Bodies Turn Over Every Hundred Years
for Ruby
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their green creek bellies like those of unremembered
vases    the twilight buttons up dusk and the honey
moon like a hand worn cardigan   the longevity of cemeteries
and winsome meadows   the house is a series of smiling saturdays
how her sniveling nooks shed their dark barked canoes   because i have forgotten
how water laughs   an effulgence in my mind
for once i felt a coruscation   life’s crackle   the turning over
of winter wood like the ploughing of a field   a nascent
conversation between funeral and pentecostal ghosts
whatever births have been carried through its threshold  how feathery
the cold wind feels when crossed   the unrailed bridges of childhood
the unreeling of middle life   a crisp ocean floor and the teetering of shadows owning up
to their merciless hiding places                                           seek
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How Autumn Burns The Maple Leaves 
for Evie
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for the forest fire boiled in the sky
night ocean   panoply of rose veined with flint
the sun marshmallow white   o winter willow
and her offering of golden hair   leaves of forgiving tongues
so thirsty they spawn the earth and drink
pigeon or stone-colored mist circling   streaming   my ghosts thawing
all at once  how they climb the hungry trees    east
sun sailing between the nests   nets like our woven hands
she has waited all these ungrateful years for me
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Saturday 
for Ruby
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for when i closed his eyes there was still a warmth
over his skin   i would never see him moving in my house
again   but i could finally see through him   how he was
the only reason his mother and father
married   so others wouldn’t talk   so he was never taken
away   because forcing herself into marriage was the only way
to free herself from her mother
i told my son some photos in frames are best covered by others
deaths were becoming more sensual
and more alive in me   conciliating closures and a hand sewing
of coffin hems   and i held their hands like the knot of two threads
and even though he was satiated with grain and under the ground
and our full cup of sleep   the sun outside the window   furnished
with its luxurious light the languishing fronds
how they wrap and curl like gift ribbon   cocoons   carried off
in the fall wind like aureate wings   i am enthusiastic about the habiliments
of hibernation   scent of a cake of soap   cave chimes
on the outside tinkle like rain   i once heard about people speaking
of the spring and the moon wallowing in the lake
so i aired out her body for the scent of mothballs was thick
and when i stood up my legs still dizzy   i remembered
it was saturday   how the walls of the world yawned and creaked
as the dawn hues dappled and even the shorn webs of our old
corn rooms were softened silk in milk
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Wedding Day 
for Frank
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those days lost   our newly molded faces as fine as waxed masks
the unbuttoning of the house of the last world   lest we forget
how my legs burned that day right up
to my chest   for forests do come to some   as clean-screened
and thick as the memory of the death feather tick   it’s true
that woods are haunted   that crows are a never ending expulsion
crown of feathers   their black robust bodies   how branches lay
their unagaped eggs for really they are hard unhatched
radicles in the mud   it is true some spend all their lives adjusting
wings no matter how peppery and cold
i dreamt i could walk where no steps had ever sunk or embossed
the ground   i dreamt i had a sweetness in my hand that even bees could
hang off
it is true that woods are haunted   even during the day
and how their thorns sting
in bed my body cracks like old kitchen tiles   for god’s perimeter
slides like a packet through the branches in my chest   listening
to the psalms sung from his red ticking knoll   his palm holds me
in deep sleep’s casement
my eyelashes   untangled legs of infant spiders like unbending
ferns   cushioning the light and an infiltration of womb’s eye   and everything
in my mind was milky even though the glass faced east   spoilt
shadows out of criss-crossed mist   unspinning their brilliant birth
for black feathers and wiry claws have been dispersed
from the dusky nooks of their hill willows   the day’s accoutrements
her dress is muslin white and unlike any other mourning i have ever known
bats upright and crooning   roosting on the ribs of a ship
as i dried and washed   i sat by the mansard window   and the mixtures
of the world like cotton threads hemming my skins   warm and
how they dapple under my clothes   life has her own sugary
hands   lithe fingers as eternal as keys and latches   children who were here
long before i was born   and their scent of wanted clothes
are transparent when they’re lifted   flitting
of a scintillating wheat meadow
so i waited for him to arrive   for a savior can be someone who merely
parks along the curb of the street   thaw the iron latch like a frozen
tongue and a door which can savor
you   the dripping of bees from our mouth
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annie blake autumn
Annie Blake (BTeach, GDipEd) is a divergent thinker, a wife and mother of five children. She commenced school as an EAL student and was raised and, continues to live in a multicultural and industrial location in the West of Melbourne. She enjoys experimenting with Blanco’s Symmetrical and Asymmetrical Logic to explore consciousness and the surreal and phantasmagorical nature of unconscious material. Her work is best understood when interpreted like dreams. She is an advocate of autopsychoanalysis and a member of the C G Jung Society of Melbourne, Australia. You can visit her on www.annieblakethegatherer.blogspot.com.au   and Log into Facebook | Facebook
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