
.
Graveyard Bodies Turn Over Every Hundred Years
for Ruby
.
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
.
How Autumn Burns The Maple Leaves
for Evie
.
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
.
Saturday
for Ruby
.
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
.
Wedding Day
for Frank
.
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
.

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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