Esvie Coemish

Love Letter 58

6,212 Myriad Parasangs In The Owl’s Nest You’ve Become

East to west, I run around the yard. I swear I saw you floating
              out where planes are circling the fog, the noiseless throbbing magnet’s
ceaseless summons breaking through my dreams, my cell phone strangely singing
              worship hymns to pocketed machines, so that the only stagnant
being is you. The owls riddle into bloom, bursting flagrant
                                                                     wingspans groomed for love and prey-bent.

Circle me a yes on the note tacked to willow bark. I wrote it crying
              wind all through me like a Wiffle bat, and crackly leaves in latent
branches summoning spring with painful sighs, and I’ve forgotten something
              owlish in your eyes that spins in place, a liquid through the mason
jar, a scarlet glow uniting beet and beet, an empty swing set
                                                                     where your knees jack high and day-bent.

Rain on my magic capsule-heart, a foamy neon toy expanding
               clumsily with spokes becoming music parts, which further hastened
into cosmic organs, pipes entwined as space-time’s web, booming
               thunder claps. I cannot hold you. Why should muskrats in adjacent
tunnels nose each other’s fur, yet time’s barbwire fences
                                                                     keep our atoms trapped and dirt-bent?

Once upon a river we drank from diamonds, and happily then sorting
               them like the aurora borealis, shattered into bits. A tent
staked into your eyes has stood all night, with silhouettes cavorting
               on the trembling vinyl walls as bears that, baring teeth, ascend
fur and all into the thickets overhead, where sometimes vagrant
                                                                     coons conspire, starved and trash-bent.

Cottonwoods are gossiping again, and with your name send streaming
               cloudy puffs of seedlings while I spin in place. I smell your scent,
rich as a mesquite, and someone tabulating snapping tree limbs
               bleaches clean the sky reflected in your eyes. It’s not the end
Moses saw retreat on Sinai when his god’s face gouged the plaited
                                                                     hair of priests on fire and snake-bent.

What’s the point of living mean and drunk inside a corn husk, spitting
               phtew on every deking flea that isn’t you? That dawn’s effacement
leaves no place for little roses dried and locked in jars. Sifting
               grain, so much of you crammed down to rushing plinks that mist a cadence,
I deal in dust. Repeatedly I flip the Fool and shout, “Dear hatchling,
                                                                     come at me like a pulsar, ray-bent.”