poetryrepairs 15.03:028

TERRY WOLVERTON : Cigarette Dreams
TERRY WOLVERTON : Tinnitus Lullyby
AVERIL BONES: The Sea's Trophy

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TERRY WOLVERTON
Tinnitus Lullaby
s
Is the night swollen with birdsong or are my cochleae singing to me again, phantom echo of sounds I once heard in pre-dawn India, when trees came alive? I called you across continents so you too could hear the music of birds awakening beside the temple that glowed like a lantern, while sacred chants poured from windows, rippling across dark water. Iíve always been lonely. The world leaves its fingerprints on me, but all I touch dissolves to smoke, and Iím left listening only to the music inside my head.

poetryrepairs #210 15,03:028





TERRY WOLVERTON
Cigarette Dreams

Youíve been someone else too long. Youíve come to identify with her blonde wig, stained fingernails, tiara. Weíve grown accustomed to your little monologues, heavy with death slang. Youíve forgotten how to converse with rocks; you hate their inertness, their fixity. Smoke blooms from the end of your constant cigarette; the ash grows longer, drops. The acid day pierces your illusions. Ideas are cooked slow in a calm eye. The nipple is smarter than the brain. You fail to perceive the other versions of your story. Backyard rooster left, can no longer show where the treasure hides. If you could re-wind the scene, would you? Now you sit in a room. Rock and want. After death we no longer worry cigarette dreams of the monkey brain or recognize the sound of feathers.

poetryrepairs #210 15,03:028





AVERIL BONES
The Sea's Trophy

On a windy day we walked down to a whipped sea, cropped by foam caps. Even the sky's sweep lacked a sharp postcard's choate panorama. I did not struggle with the sea's first cling; walked in (trepidatious) until no sand secured my breath above the briny foam. For a moment we swam in loose tandem. Another moment and you were lost to siren song and ancient phantoms, hid yourself in deeper water. Left alone, fear seized me. I turned to land, was caught in eddies whose frothing whirlpools dizzied me. Panic is not a pretty thing. Its dark mane passed over me. Its maw called all the world's sand away, left not enough to save me. But I know the capricious sea, had only to ride simple waves to the long shore where warm breezes dried my soggy gills, whipped my salty skin crusty. I wait for you to surface.

poetryrepairs #210 15,03:028







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TERRY WOLVERTON has authored ten books of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction, most recently Wounded World: lyric essays about our spiritual disquiet. She is Affiliate Faculty of the MFA Writing Program at Antioch University.

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