Heidi A. Howell



not like television

the post that won't bloom glass
marbles he sleepwalks

he fights and curses
he is stunned by the world

i thought of her as part of a painting
how she would look with other people

beginning and undoing simultaneously

older by more than two the rocks
on the desk as the world carved
flint amethyst glittering
christmas ball all ordered
to arouse disembodied desire


filled the room behind the blinds
a window to the street she makes up a person
less than herself – sliver framed behind
a lamp that no longer works –

why do we not sing now

the scientists remind us the selves
or unselves she had a gun
she did not both an accident so many
of us in all no one could understand

a certain life “i couldn't have
done better” weary of changelessness –
liars – this space in white in and
out of the pony tails swarm across
(too self-conscious, finally) the movements
i knew it from the start pile on



no one is looking

everything rushes mirror
empty above broken
irresistible mattering
                               transparent

suffer frank disregard mountains hill
hurt music a minor open key i am
secretly (fill in the blank)
without the blue of sky of
water

magic words with lunar fake love bathing
a shelf yearning of visitor nymph the suburban
scream for abdication – blue evening

are the bowls too heavy? the plates?

then norman normal norma france
more or not your tragedy thank you
still the sign signified freshened
radiant not necessarily
                                                             innocent

everyone is must conceived
without trying like shoes meant
opening enclosing engulfing sleep
eat and die a frenzied ocean fantastical
to drape alive around the shoulders now
                                              your angry gorgeous abandon



seeking something more
                               — reading Paz

the house in my dreams hides
unused rooms more, there's more —
tall windows light a dark-haired
woman long white dress a blue
sash murmuring —
                everyone i do not know

outside dissolution flays the trees
loosed leaves wake to snow

the writer says the poem tells us
the writer says the page burns in western light
everything either grows or dies

or returns

does it mean something? he wanted to know
concrete a chair blackbirds emptiness

it might be better not to have wings
                               once again my name is called
something moves behind the plants
whisper don't fading light
                                              brighter a moment —
                maybe it's the syllables neurons wind tunnels
nudism quantum theory albinos khaki uniforms
your vampire dreams that song stuck in my head
                               it was about something
                else, then something else
again, finally lost to final
ending this time with dust and smoke



Heidi A. Howell holds an MFA from George Mason University, Fairfax, VA. She has been published in a variety of print and online magazines and nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
 
 
previous page     contents     next page