What is stillness? What is more still than last
frayed dandelion holding onto its white bones?
It gives with wind, each sway equals a bending
towards forgiveness of itself, to the last girl who claimed
to feast upon leaves. Imagine this: a fist, knuckles
jeweled like the glint of a new balloon,
as it swaps a pocket for a face, yellowing an eye.
A still bruise below a blood shot iris now a clutter
with the blooming redness of anger. What is more
still than an empty bed, where the absent bodies
press harder than bones of the real? What is more
still than the ice breaking the pain of the fist’s cut,
arriving and departing at the bone? Imagine that
same fist grinding the dough of language, shaping
fire of mouths-spitting jewels that case names
and oxygen-the gift of failure that all must breathe.
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