Verena Raban

In It

When her thought formed the woman her mouth opened

a frog the size of a child’s heart emerged tender into her

hands from her mouth just cresting the shape of an O as in

Oh finally O as in oranges and outer space O my God and

as in the shape of love before it is spoken the small frog twinged

her legs shook she felt.

An Act of Recognition

The statue, wide as a tower, tall as a village, not far, not unwilling, shows itself in marble white

as an eye. As the sun rises with its greenish copper glow, the statue gazes into four doorways

which seem to hold the light as a basin holds water, as though it were newly born, as though

the sun had opened its eyes for the first time. Perfectly. Without thought. The light, four fingers

pointing upward, a silent, empty hand. From this open palm of a morning the statue conceives

another shape, taller and wider than itself. Like a voice, a dark mirror on the dusty ground

below. A figure emerges into the courtyard draped in black robes. One arm shields their face

from the glowing heat, an uncanny reflection of the statue, who, reclining still in the growing heat,

appears as a beacon. The gradient emanation in the doorways speaks no welcome. There is no

place for this figure in that lilt. Arms folded above their heads, feet shrouded in stone, the

two align, solitary figure with silent statue, as in a wistful glance, as in a syllogism, they converge

until the figure’s shadow is enveloped, until the earth turns its head. And at midday, the one

disappears.

Under the Bat Twee

for Ivy

I read somewhere that David Foster Wallace was something like quite needy, and that late at night
while they were lying in bed he begged his second wife not to die.

Please, don’t die.

I feel my skeleton vibrating. It rattles even while I’m very still.

I read somewhere that David Foster Wallace crossed out the tattoo of his first wife’s name and got a
tattoo of his second wife’s name underneath, as a replacement, a new permanent. A name other than his
own to hold under his skin.

Hold me under.

The rattling joins together in my solar plexus, in between the upside-down V of my ribcage. It’s not
dark yet. I lie down on my back in the grass and take my shirt off under the sycamore. From here my
bones send their messages. From under my skin

your name.

Insects come, glow and flutter in the echoing V, waiting soppishly to be eaten by bats.

Nightgarden

Such terror in love,

one foot on plush earth,

one on a waterlily.

When the moonlight seems

just right night shines

like day, except for the arcus

clouds overlooking.

Shadows push through

ivy to the brick wall.

A years-long staring

game, a deep gamble

played in the dark.

It is true, sometimes

you’re only holding

a body, sometimes,

or only a head

drained white of blood,

a veil of hair keeling

like tangled antennae.

Making marcescent

of moment by moment.

The verge is green.

The verge is frozen.

The verge is in the eyes.

Cheek to cheek we grabble,

and the moon outstays our faces.

Sacrament

The murmuration shapes a

postmortem question in a

sky built from unknown waters

whose vacuous body grows, a

furthering darkness providing

only handfuls of starlight.

What I have seen standing still

in the dusk, a beautiful ritual

reflecting nothing familiar, I have

reached for with cupped hands, and

raising the mystery to my lips like a

lost girl’s supper, like a

sweet vapor,

heard only the flock settle into silhouettes

of trees.

One Talking to No

I formed

four letters

in my mouth and spoke

to you into

my black pillow, I was floating

in space, I was headed to that outer part

of a black hole where if you get caught up

in it time might bend, that place

where there is

no turning and only turning and finally

each wilting particle, ashen

and fluxed, becomes

perfectly joined with language,

that thought I whisper wetly

to you into

silly linen dyed the color of fading

pupils, those circles connecting

us like hands

woven warm around hands.

My name for you grows

bird legs and hops

in the direction of your heart,

a message almost flying,

in the direction of a spinning

weathervane’s arrow, pointing,

pointing, shooting.

A horse’s mane

billows pale in the night’s open window

tearing with stars. Do you

see her running? She does not stop

when she sees me. When she sees me

she sees two eyes, one is green

like the near-empty bed

of a pond, the other is green

like a traffic light

and she interprets each

as a wing, certain of where

it’s fluttering, on either side of a word

so dark no one but you can see it hoping. So, I do

not cry but imagine, your feathered shoulders,

your neck shimmering with sweat, your face

glowing go, go, don’t

stop. I am so sad. The horse is alone

when she jumps through the window,

through the wings,

becomes a bird

nested in my head for good. Finally,

my eyes close, algaed stones after

no other rolling down

a hole for aye.