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Fire & Flower
Laura Kasischke
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Fire & Flower
Laura Kasischke
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About This Book
The poems in Fire & Flower are about the images that hold the world together in the mind of a child, a woman, and the mother she becomes. The metaphors used to describe their lives are mysterious and frightening, and they accumulate in this collection as a full expression of the awe that makes us all live.
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Two
Barney
I love you. You love me.
He is the true Zero in his cap & bells, in the terrible
lizard of his skin. I see him
crossing the tundra in snowshoes like a big
hug coming, lost
on Earth
in a body. Consider: if I become him
what kind of suffering? This
afflicted creature, dancing
for the hostile, costumed. Venus
loves him. He loves me, has given
himself to the whole world without
mortification, given
himself to the landscape
of sap and snow and cloud, come
unto the world
and made it pregnant, singing
to the invisible family before him, swallowing
the sorrow of childrenâinnocent, curious, extinct.
A narrow stream of tears runs right through him.
When the beloved
is in everyone, in the excited
imbecile, the timid
orgy of sleep, who
can help but think of Christ
with his sandals & lambs? Why
all of us? Why not just some? Oh
the emptiness of so much. The everlastingness. This
hug. Quivering, endured. A purple
balloon like our hearts, naked
and blown up
without flesh, wrinkles, fur. It loves
without an object of it, and how
we long to keep
the beast of it
stuffed down inside us
along with the little saints & fools
who sing pitiful songs in our chests.
Pregnant at the All-night Supermarket
Ozone spills over the frozen rolls, the whole
breathing surface of the earth, the whole
unnatural world. Outside, rusty water
yawns up from a well, while
the moon deeply sleeps in her
damp chemise of cheese, while
nurses at the hospital nearby
hover over babies
wearing white. So
much fresh and living flesh
out thereâthe fish-egg stars, Christâs
mildewed shroudâbut here
not even the dim
memory of mold. Here
my hand passes over
what I once wanted to buyâall
those cold loaves and indifferent liesâand I
begin to believe thereâs nothing left
in this world
I could bear to eat
until, leaving, I see
a Luna Moth on my windshield.
Its wings are pale green.
Dear Air
I saw you in the laundromatâmy love, my voice, my empty dove.
I saw you in the closet in
the emptiness of shoes. I saw you in the window and saw myself in you. My
honeycomb, my fate, brief
virgin I once was. All
summer, white grapes
spun themselves from sun
and water on their vinesâin-
candescent thumbs, clear-
blooded and alive. Love
made love to me the way
a spider shrouds a fly
in silk and lies until
heâs amorous
and quiet
as a meal. And now I know that love like that is nothing, but
bottomless as
the space contained
by the gold hoop of a wedding ring lost
one day in linens. Five
thousand brides could dance
at one time
on that bright dime. Christâs
white tigers flying
through hoops of fire. You
did not see me, but I saw you. Thief: Womb: Vowel
wrapped in light like
an old womanâs
faded hair.
As in heaven, I saw you there, and all I could do was stare
dumbly as you tumbled
your stars & flowers with my towels.
Burial
Where my father has retired, thereâs so much sand
he can only grow
a small, crooked
carrot in the ground. It tastes
like a finger, or it tastes like the sound
a song makes passing
through a rabbit hole. My father has stepped
off the porch
of his ...