Meredith Blankinship
4 poems
**
Ghostbike X
'Hill' is a bend that brings
us closer—a lengthening
strand subsumed by an urge. 'Knot' is
so much little fill and forgery. A small
parade in the night leaving
daylitter, chanting in a language
we don't know how
to answer. The red light still
blinking on a left bike.
**
Let's Communicate: January 1st, 2010
Little words said to bring the beasts out. These. Trickle and fall and somehow it's not for us to backfire anymore. How you make me into a doll out of the cinders. Poor wretch whose colors come clean once you can express the marrow. Windows paled by sunlight and your winsome fractures grin snaggletoothed at me from above. Or below. The smug cakes around your skin, sludging off at the ball, onto your dress.
I found a new harbinger little thing entitled and now I prowl night invigorating vast and panicked present tense. I was told to write because I am alive and one day I won't be but I don't know if I believe this to be true, in truth.
Then I learned to sleep in very contained spaces so there was room for all the lists I lay and wrote and wrote and could do nothing else but dream of you en gallop across a wide and troubled parsing.
I am walking a walk through the long part of the park, slouch-clothed and I feel too young and lonely, thinking about you and your leaving. And then you say It's a new year: so--
**
Girl
once you know
language you can
never know god.
I didn't leave my room
for weeks because if I'm not
as big as a planet
then what's the fucking point.
.........for Skye
**
Ghostbike 2: Unfound
I followed the signs of others but you weren't
anywhere, from Wygant to Fremont on MLK
Boulevard. In look & looking I thought I
just wasn't seeing right & you were
lost to the corners of my periphery. Or
my map is broken. Or maybe
you were chained to a giant
tree who gobbled you into its rings over time
with its pulpy appetite & all that's left
a flash of white on the rind-shell shuck.
**
return to sawbuck 4.3
**
Meredith Blankinship lives and poems in Portland, OR. Her work has appeared previously in elimae and Peaches & Bats 6. She is currently working on a chapbook entitled Ghostbike. She would like you to e-mail her at mereblankinship@gmail.com.
**
Ghostbike X
'Hill' is a bend that brings
us closer—a lengthening
strand subsumed by an urge. 'Knot' is
so much little fill and forgery. A small
parade in the night leaving
daylitter, chanting in a language
we don't know how
to answer. The red light still
blinking on a left bike.
**
Let's Communicate: January 1st, 2010
Little words said to bring the beasts out. These. Trickle and fall and somehow it's not for us to backfire anymore. How you make me into a doll out of the cinders. Poor wretch whose colors come clean once you can express the marrow. Windows paled by sunlight and your winsome fractures grin snaggletoothed at me from above. Or below. The smug cakes around your skin, sludging off at the ball, onto your dress.
I found a new harbinger little thing entitled and now I prowl night invigorating vast and panicked present tense. I was told to write because I am alive and one day I won't be but I don't know if I believe this to be true, in truth.
Then I learned to sleep in very contained spaces so there was room for all the lists I lay and wrote and wrote and could do nothing else but dream of you en gallop across a wide and troubled parsing.
I am walking a walk through the long part of the park, slouch-clothed and I feel too young and lonely, thinking about you and your leaving. And then you say It's a new year: so--
**
Girl
once you know
language you can
never know god.
I didn't leave my room
for weeks because if I'm not
as big as a planet
then what's the fucking point.
.........for Skye
**
Ghostbike 2: Unfound
I followed the signs of others but you weren't
anywhere, from Wygant to Fremont on MLK
Boulevard. In look & looking I thought I
just wasn't seeing right & you were
lost to the corners of my periphery. Or
my map is broken. Or maybe
you were chained to a giant
tree who gobbled you into its rings over time
with its pulpy appetite & all that's left
a flash of white on the rind-shell shuck.
**
return to sawbuck 4.3
**
Meredith Blankinship lives and poems in Portland, OR. Her work has appeared previously in elimae and Peaches & Bats 6. She is currently working on a chapbook entitled Ghostbike. She would like you to e-mail her at mereblankinship@gmail.com.
Labels: 4.3, fall 2010, meredith blankinship
