Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

WATERSLIDES IN AUXILIARY HOSPITAL WASHROOM by Daniel Thompson

 

Two Hands Folded, With The Thumbs Demarcating The Beak Of An Eagle

 

I dreamt

a watery face

The loud U.S. map

shouted all sorts of

broken arrows

feather heads and other found objects

slipped to me from fingers to fingers

by the fingers of something unknown

holy hand

 

I have been given the bones

of a poppy

asked to care for them

So I rubbed them with sesame oil

before moving on

Forming capitols, governing islands,

building castles to fill with

chicken and other fowl creatures,

subsisting on compliments and

continental breakfast

icing lemons in the hallway and heating

wine to its lowest boiling points,

poaching plums for the sake of poaching plums

 

I rattle huckleberry branches, asking for change, 

charge space for the mustard seed, address the sun

ask for answers, match

my skin to the color of the

peach red in one section of

the geographic sky,

ramble on for hours until

my shoes grow too small for me

to speak. Beneath

my own personal davenport stands

the only lamp I've ever known

and the warm light that permeates

from underneath the dust ruffles

and woolen sheets,

and creates major wave lengths

which are and which measure

the shift in the tectonic plates

 

I find disembodied steering wheels all the time

 

A river runs above the house of my mother

and my father burnt his feet

running on the sands from the thinning mountains;

it was then that

he built the world's first plateau

 

at birth the curving world unfurled and I wore it as a

blanket and knew nothing new or different 

because that was all i knew

I couldn't see ships until

the ripples caught me

 

solely my supine palm 

could stop the leak and there 

I stayed there for forty days becoming the medicine

Building small wooden things, objects of flight which were

trapping salamanders before sending them on their way;

it was how I learned of timing and rhythm 

To edge the side of the swamp

and unearth the stones from the

mud

and bring them to the beach

to order a transfer of stones—

how bossy I can be

but it was defeating and uneasy and totally needed

to line the shore

 

I always have to prevent things from dripping 

 

The albatross calls to me and

I respond with my eyes

I shake the clay from the thorns and

just make more of them

threading pine needles with spiderweb;

now that takes practice

 

breakfast and practice

 

Long purple light sheds fields and fields

of corn abound—

it is the same thing

as the light which

careens beneath the davenport

 

The coral reef screams mean things

So I motion a signal indicating 'patience' 

The healers have all moved on without me 

Tar brews in the rockbedpots

carved from an ancestor's locked door, 

and with it I coat

the bottom of my old, old wooden ship

I offer tea to a lone mother mammal, her pains of labor

always remembered even far behind

the second coming's end

 

The earth has always been level, partially

nocturnal

Among the lichens and stalagmites

at the most famous bat caves

I bathe

And sweep the water with handfuls of wool sheets

off the body of my own

I can ring the rag into my mouth

And drink the juice most similar to my skin

Fish eggs float to the surface of puddles after storms

and the suggest

some form of emergence

it's all intuitive

 

The branches stoop slowly to pick up

the missing thing.

 

This there in these islands,

it is where the star sighs,

lay rest at the start of sunrise.

 

Currently, the world is beneath my feet

and what is this?

The exhaustion of Travel—

the result of our bodies intuitively knowing

the distance we cover

in this modern day

and how significantly we move

at speeds just as we uncover them;

it is all

so humbled and ungorgeous.

 

 

Leah Clancy is professionally living with her parents right now.