Forrest Roth

Flight, And This Denial Lands To
(excerpts from an untitled work in progress)

She Weaves Sleepy Holes

into tapestry neglect. Silk for her threaded expanse purchased over unwelcome shoulder. Having at brushed daze: their guest by parade. Before them upon finding walls and the table-letting. To admire spaces for beauty. It is a bare creation thus. That fray draws beginning gazes as though hollow pearls thrust forward. There is also her question. Does crossing this room let the shadowdancer take thought. The benign ripple nervously attentive. Pinpoint light indents a harness slung about its edges.

An Impersonal Dress

tries to make wife expecting. Fashioned for back clasp a scarlet jewel. Felt toward a soft in her spine of finger’s well, what no naive bridegroom misses. Something holds taut, a string of no less ennumeration than pearls those bedded wore dividing of shelled flesh their mingle. Only cause of sediment helps stir her. Does cotton hang soaked from her, a musking that staunches shoulder-wrap the clavicle weep. For her, then. This hollow responds kind shame, he thinks. Sole bearer for a year leaves a stitch despising for him. As it was some daughter had cleared her womb out long before claim.

Staying Lockstep In

skeletal allows climbing base of stairs where none have been built. Impassive lengths of safe infatuation seal them with nails. She counts squared heads dotting up, each crying copper for frailties that mar too many surfaces. Beginning with branches. What retains her station to highest steps not aforesaid. They are abandoned thick in the trained folds of her dress, leaning her over a reading pedestal. Tense of sullen pages turns obscura collected for his own eyes (or his son’s one day), celestial substance undertaken so needled senses are flush. She paces over many scripts—until other shuffling feet move her further behind leafed curtains he rounds this study with. The adornment suits down to a thistle. She has seen him trim sheared roses once handsome. And cauls rolling together on candletipped fingers. Lower and poorer let tarnished saucers carry tallow. Walls seep these accidental offerings.

Roomless Necromancy

casts fey mantles filling incantation. Itself having eyes coveted. Hearth determines such by rendering volumes that close unread upon its builder: the ocean primeval usurped. Its prose however indefinite. He translates through limited syllabary, using an account of ordinary carp. A single utterance describes these carp, three syllables composed, similar to his speak. Used in other words. His sounds here and there prescribe an able story, one that authors disregarding further. Yet results delight him. He forgets returning to the preface which had resisted interpretation. Why let hindsighted charms distract from profound depths, he asks his zeal. Exquisite caresses ply this newfound fortune in guile. To blink ashamed is to not bear his own reward.

Eventual Abundance

ajars as pierce heaviness its own tempest leer alike a portent, and when ceases nodding does summon by clap against its resting, a return over the stand calling heaven’s attention filligree despite spent reed in a guest shadow or until some distantly sea-yearning quitodian hears alchemy rub cold against the frail insides a mothering for vanity fine-tune the mutable straw broom, would grasses ever ancestor the stoneless ruin destined to hear the names hushed upon its carnal walls, forcing a leather riddle to tapestry copper boltings peeled from crossed on wooden beams, the flaying needles, a glassy breadloaf broken for fixtures mocking tiny, gasping shells heated in impossible drench up towards the ceiling’s dissent, whereupon, concocting on tongue, a stirring relic shares its poison out from sturdy base, again some ripe passion or the keep afloat the hounded kneeling by haystack arcane, emerging then fastiduous with a mournful whim—evasive, this incision—only they must let celebrate the studies, they who sold under candlelamp the gentle request that partitions awaiting endless, the given certitude left unwashed to handle bent impressions, subtlety its stubborn ribcage language, nullifing bells in their heave autumnal to spare these last dampening fires an attic rite lusting for incursion the finest springtime pillow, a spare corset guessing her breasts he groans for set knuckles, from drip into blackened pan into the cauldron peace, with never becoming a single, forgetting twilit fault through being let go covers reddened, shaming pages past their touching, would his instill cleanse marble scents of pushed-aside doors, the heed attention intuitive at regaling inertness of a stone’s promise to walk away on end, enraged by a saving far past this, them, itself.

Forrest Roth is the author of a novella, Line and Pause (BlazeVOX, 2007). His work has appeared in NOON, Denver Quarterly, Sleepingfish, Quick Fiction, Double Room, Mad Hatters Review, Locus Novus, Word Riot, and other journals. He currently lives in Buffalo, New York.

Other excerpts from this manuscript have appeared in Caketrain and elimae.

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Blogger Geof Huth said...

These are quite beautiful, moving in motions of starts, slow and overlapping. The sound of them in my ear keeps them going. They lap against the eardrum.




12:37 PM  

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