Elizabeth Marie Young
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Disembodunent as Wired through a Renaissance Motet
to Warn with Voices of Angels: Don't Hold Your Breath


                      An eagle slithers off its coin into the waiting hand of God. We spoon, magnetically, and freeze there, stunned by the applause. And soon a chilly nimbus glyphs congealing lushness with a burst of newborn computations. The stutterer's c-c-c-curse resounds through the bright night to seep like damp into the bones of waiting refugees. Deep inside the astrodome our lazy fight toward new desires flares up with a sudden whisper or a faint, metallic glint to mutter, “If you love her, kiss her.” Sentiment to flood the sperm bank with remembrance of beds unmade by mother love. And just as slow the bald spot spreads straight through the seraphim and molten clouds get tangled up in Shanya's parachute. She hits the ground in Arkansas, her failures scaring the bejesus out of the theatre crowd who take her for a readymade. But she has only lost six teeth and smiles:
     In Kashmir a missing body is recovered.
          Dead white beneath its burka the pink canary shudders.


Shocked out in Imperfect's Plume


          It's unruly in mid-summer. Lovebirds quiver and ignite astride our grimly thinning shadows. The light rain is replete with the smell of belly-dancing and the sound of fingertips alive as tesselating birds in search of a peckable feast.
          How beastly (we infer) just marginalia and strings reverberating to the frolic of some daydream weaver's frond. Reduced to joystick jubilation. Tenderness the pink of things not really even born. How colorful! I can't go on like this outraged by every glint of the brandy drinker's eye, swooning at the limberlost, waiting for a throng of loved ones to march in, pull the IV out and feed me to the sound of one hand clapping.
          Don't look now, the summer bride has entered the gazebo thinking this might be a film noir ready to rewind. Swaying like a wan Noguchi she cuts the sky in half and as the bells begin to peel screams out “diaphanous!” The rainbows, mesmerized, bow euphemistic heads drinking deeply of the dresses never to be worn again. Their innocence abhors the diamond cutter's secret feasts. The ladies blush. The fresh-cut orchids are too opulent to speak.
          April's cruel—that's not a joke. Young bodies scattered so pell-mell you can't just leave the rest to science or squeegee up the pain. It's no use checking for a pulse. These caves are too alive with bats to lead straight out of hell. But does it have to rain so hard in mid-July?

    All in an awful tangle the countryside unpeals and with a splurge the zebra rots straight down the spiral stairs.
          The hidden cameras go "ping".
And we're left heaving in the silence of some momentary waxwing.

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