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Contributor Notes




Mark Haunschild

Mark Haunschild

 

 

Maya

 

 

before they learned the rule of sound

children believed the rhythm of mockingbird’s song

 

traveled along the bark of branch it held

through trunk’s core

 

to roots in earth across a length of forest

to toes tickled by stiff mud

 

it might have been easier that way

to see the matter word was

 

carried on as it quivered up

to you without a name

 

 

 

 

Discovery

 

before the books can burn the flames lick back into their depraved mouths

in reverse the print press comes before fire

 

letters peel themselves from pages roll back through the machines to that

            untouched pool of ink

gathering along the ridges of engraved teeth

 

coming to a screeching halt the wheel is discovered all over again

when it’s put back on its axle

 

set to motion a beginning ends

watch as the dead undo what has led to life in the first place

 

we learn to kill only after we have spoken—committed our words to history

we carry water before we begin to grow

 

 

 

 

Possession

 

 

the spider taps gently before it makes its entrance through

a break in the drawn curtains—imagine the fright

 

it causes—the stir of the gesture

as it ripples across an audience of moths

 

to grow in a wider swath—the dandelion—obliterated by light

springs into the wind without a mind to guide it to the other country 

 

without certainty we too tested the air—flaunting

our awkward and brittle wings

 

who says the persistence of the self can be quantified

in every molecule of atmosphere?—there is only so much

 

harm we can do as we wait for the next corn harvest

that final bow of October’s moon

 

after years we come to realize

that our bodies are wrapped in the same skin we were at odds with as

children

 

we dying in gratitude

we dead in meadows—we have only the things we have made

 

the songs we muttered to the dirt—in the other country

we are empty handed—there is nowhere else to go

 

 

 

 

If a Tree

 

 

without your ears to enjoy it

the twentieth-century continues to make noise

 

plunging through space—animals scream for their own purpose

cry out in a silly resistance to variation

 

and so the tree falls and truly it must make a thunderous crash

the rodents and birds as they are disheveled

 

by a furious air—a doe trots with her fawns

to the next meadow

 

you are not there to feel the breaking apart

the splinter when it snaps from the grain

 

theoretically we can go back in time—if only we could

go fast enough

 

the moment we would likely reach is the event horizon

at the center of Andromeda

 

the vantage point unfortunately matters—without your ears to hear it

the velocity by which things are made new clamors

 

how else would the gopher know the cat approaches downwind?

how else are we startled awake?

 

 

 

 

Evening Address

 

 

hey you—fat air with your mouth hung open

child bawling at the street corner

 

you hook-billed thrashers—you weeks waiting for rain

worm moon on the wane

 

you leafy greens

you shades

 

o bucket full of citrus—you!

pot boiling over

 

dear one thing after the other

dear sobriety

 

to the next giving moment—give it to me

one more time