BY AMY GAIZAUSKAS
Copyright is held by the author.
from the dock on the lake stars fall like snow
dripping down the back of sky’s black throat,
a stretched tongue melt the flakes, while
from the boat a canoe is weeping in our wake:
catch us, we call. chase us. adore us. floor us.
try to embrace us. through & through & through
& through; mosquitoes too blew like snow, swarm
on sweat in auric greys, their itch voracious, driving
us from the woods to the dock where we jump
& it becomes a dive as a swallow
or a swan as they say. what sense in that?!
stalked by martins too, their plummeting carnival
of purple — taffeta, iridescent & sapphire — swirling
against the glassy surface of the lake which, as they say,
shattered — defaced, defiled, de-dignified, while the snow,
the stars, the mosquitoes too all clattered to the ground,
to a phone call
sunday morning
where stars don’t Shoot
but hang.
***
Amy Gaizauskas is a Toronto-based writer, educator and performer interested in embodied poetics. Her work explores memory, desire, transformation, survival, extinction, movement and the colour green. Currently she is working on Small Animals, a collection of poetry that explores the idea of “self” through the use of persona and evolution.
