Rebecca Hazelton

 


A Distinction

 

Word drunk, foolish on verbs, I crashed

into the poem, naked as a J, and donned my lampshade,

 

rakish and unafraid. All across the pastoral, shepherds

drew their flocks away. Back in the blazon, a bucket

 

of hands began to clap. The sonnets turned aside.

Viva Las Voltas, I crooned, pomp adored and besequenced.

 

I thought this slot machine would turn up cherry

every time. But in, I could not out or tell – my tongue

 

spoke to some but not others. The slow blackout nuzzled

at my hand, wet nose, warm breath. Some bastards call this

 

consciousness. Others, conscience.

 

 

 

 

Say Arrows, Say Eros

 

A hopeful elision: this time the prick will fix

and loose discriminate violence in useful disaster;

 

red waters will rise, the vessel will tilt, and all clamor for passage.

What direction across the salted sea? The constellations

 

do not speak to me, to you.

If in your hand a white bird waiting, hold off –

 

I would have the rocking motion

sustained, the land promised beyond the curvature

 

of the earth, just. (Tradition says two of everything.

I would share with nothing. Let the others fend for themselves.)