Poems by Annabel McSpadden
Some late, wisteria-loose
April era,
Every hour moves in the trees,
Gold.
Wisteria:
Lethargy strands,
Purple’s slowest shade,
Parking lot altar,
Flower girl wandering
In wordless proclamation -
This string of days
Gives itself away.
Rise - sink - rise -
Would you call light
Hysteria
If I took it in my eyes
And blinded to the lies I write:
Time, self,
Rhymes and
Pride in them?
Wrap all of me but my body
In wysteria.
I’ll see specks of her
Glinting in the golden commonality -
Call her ego,
Call her motes,
But she’ll fade.
She fades and fades.
---
I don’t hallucinate,
but I dream hallucinations -
each voice a fingertip
against my eyelid,
each voice sourced
from some deep awareness.
somewhere, I name the fear:
universes scattering as they always have,
but, this time,
letting me watch.
----
like two fingers per eye
pressed hard enough to see lightning,
I light upon sudden peace -
I darken.
like rain green flowers,
sweet green flowers on half the tree,
you suggest the branches
that touch my window
tell least surprising halves
of stories.
what would it mean to
write cues on my hands,
line cues like curios on the sill -
cue essences, memories of essences
so wonder takes no induction
but constant, constant, resurrects?
