Tuesday, August 6, 2019

From “Reconstructions” by Brad Trumpfheller

From “Reconstructions”
I won’t explain. My aunts spell
                                                                                 around the vanity mirror
& centerpiece me, my lips plummed,
                                                        my neck belled mid-flight.
                 After the food’s uncooked, the heirloom paring knife
stitched up the bell peppers & dark meat,
                                                                    after the fiddle leaves
                             left their fiddles, the porch undressed of wasps & us
our old names—
                                          right here. As if even the evening
           didn’t let on. No parking lot, no gas stations. A scythe
of emptied prisons shudder
                                                       alongside the highway; bougainvillea
& gun oil in the sheets. All my cousins slow-dancing
                              in their cowboy boots & antlers.
                                          My mothers singing to the dogwood tree
             blooming black across my arm.
Your hand finally on the small of my back, without any kind of fear.
This time, I’ll be a girl & you can be anything
alive. Take the rope off your wrists.
                                                      Somewhere far away from here,
               a star’s unspooling its star-white curtain.
                                          What happens if we begin already angels?
Press your ears to my wingspan. Hum a little.
We are the most possible kind of daughterhood.
                                                                                    I promise.
Step into the light.
            Let me see the mark our rapture left behind.

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