Sarah Gridley




I call the main body, marker: a standing as if


in stead of. Or else a thing stooped down upon, and snapped. From branch I call


the main body, bramble: crescive glow from a crusted switchbox. On and off until a kind


of curfew comes. I call the main body, espoused. Line of symmetry inside, trench between


two lungs for the twoness of, the two-timedness of breathing. By oxygen-drawn sheerness


into red I call the branches to describe themselves…               





Looking quietly at a trumpet, its flared bell, its blackness encompassed by brass I said




at a black fruit in seas of prickers I said wait.     A body is mainly its branches


branca               claw paw hand             its tender


and untender branches.





A wealthy sound in velvet niches, silver bedded with silver. Draw the curtains


for candescence, candlestubs in silver antlers. The sun coughs down


auroras, illumines branches of


extinction. Beneath the tree a childhood coffer, a peony and


an acorn smell.



“Arethusa” first appeared in Fourteen Hills