April dis•articulations poem by Terry Wolverton

At the beginning of the month, Terry gave collaborating poet Angela Peñaredondo four prompts. Angela engaged in fevered writing with each of them and gave the results to Terry. Terry used the words from that fevered writing to create this dis•articulations poem.


That June, we’d been oblivious to the idleness of time,
blistered world shaking and swaying underneath our feet;
the herd was wilder then, until our blood stiffened, leaving salt
and thistles in our mouths.

I was alone in the arctic. I became Miles Davis
but without the musical light. I was sticky. I was stuck.
My world was full of strangers, thin and thorn-like. I’d summoned
them with my toothsome charms.

You’d been to the zoo and kept the keys. You let loose needle-thin
horses and weakened goats. It was too late for the dying cats;
they’d become statues, buried in dirt. Your fingers opened me,
hinted at greener miles.

Drivers, not ready for the road. So much invention and mud.
I wanted sugar, not coal. This was part of my charm. Chasing
poems, but not the story. The cross on your shoulders like a map
to nowhere, sunk in doubt.

Were we just not hinged for marriage, blasted chapel collapsed?
For a time we were transparent to one another, children
rolling on the ledge. We’d slither closer, but could not wait to
jump into the white sky.

What we wanted was weightlessness, as if on the jagged moon.
We didn’t know we had exoskeletons, once we’d been reborn,
wings of iron that tore petals from the lilies that waited
by the side of the road.


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