Klaus W Rieck, CARRA
25.
Growing from sky downward, full
of names. This tree, beginning
unknown, end unknowable.
It passes through the ship on
a path to sea bed. All those
names rustle amongst branches
in air; undulate, blur in
the deep; below decks, flicker
against walls of an
amphitheater. At its
top stand three filthy
gods observing what’s below.
In the highest rows, lovers
slump, hold hands, nap. Some
fornicate beneath lower seats. Still
lower, they’re actually
alert, take notes. And there,
onstage, couples, arm in arm,
meander as they pronounce
names never heard before. New names
for themselves and all the
others. Names that cluster, rise
through and far above the ship, then
spread into a canopy.
26.
On the amphitheater’s
stage, three gods speak on What
is Certainty? What is
Doubt?
Frog spewing its rainbow
oil slick of blood.
Swarm
of wasps not yet in focus.
Air
growling.
Lightning’s little
tingle.
Gold tooth flashing in
an open mouth.
River’s
current pulling a dress
tight.
Winter’s worth of
dust swirling in a room.
Squirrel’s
cheek and flank gone hollow.
Slightest,
first gray of dawn.
Red ghost.
Cell
sucked down its own drain.
This
ship, slicing sea.
Sitting
before us, you
lovers, applauding.
27.
Berthed in their night cabin, they
listen to melody
beginning beyond the
wall. They imagine
fingers curling toward, long blond
hair brushing, strings on an
amber harp, carved with rondures,
flutings. And as those two bend
toward one another, they heed
that golden throbbing.
28.
From their captain, word
comes down of a new
museum hall. To which couples
flock, only to find that those three
divine curators appear,
themselves, on exhibit, the room
being otherwise empty. They
gesture and describe
nothingness.
Notice the bronze
hands and shoulders of this little
boy peeing into that white-tiled
font.
Here, in marble, a
massive nude, her arm thrown
back over her unchiseled
blank of a face. Or how these
fish, with their stone tongues, leer
up from the wading pool’s rim.
And,
finally, this unicorn’s
exquisite neck, that young woman’s
hair falling across it, her
slender arms embracing. How
she loves the creature and wishes
that it won’t leave, though also
full-well knowing that it can’t
be bound in any furrow.
29.
Docked at another quay, though
once again only the gods
are allowed to disembark. From
the main deck, other
passengers watch those three
tie one on. They see the bottle
being passed around, but then
are drawn to observe, just offshore,
dozens of jellyfish, each
a little world of its own
light, milky white, soft galaxy,
inhaling, exhaling cloud
edges, bulbing orange-eye center
upward. Next morning, back
at the railing, they see the
deities, unsure of their
own edges, stumbling along
wet rocks and nearly upon one
dead medusa. It has taken
on light of the night’s blood-sea; it
looks like a gumshoe blob. They
kick at it with muddy feet.
30.
On that other ship, I opened
my mouth to scream war precisely
when that arrow pierced my
skull from above. Instantly,
a torn path through the
right periventricular
area, right frontal deep
white matter, cranial
cavity immediately
lateral to anterior
cerebral arteries, right
optic canal, right ethmoidal
and sphenoid sinuses, to
exit through point of chin. And
stopped there. The second
arrow took a simpler
route. Through right cheek, over
tongue, past that other shaft,
to exit through left cheek. And stopped
there. The battle ended, I
demanded and was brought
a full-length mirror. Leaning on
the one still working leg, I gazed
with now just one good eye at
what I’d become. A tilting Celtic
cross, crucifix of
every sad, sad hour.
❂
JOEL CHACE has published work in print and electronic magazines such as Tip of the Knife, Eratio, Otoliths, Word For/Word, Golden Handcuffs Review and The Brooklyn Rail. Most recent collections include Humors, from Paloma Press, Threnodies, from Moria Books, and fata morgana, from Unlikely Books. Maths is forthcoming from Chax Press.