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Copyright © 2011

Felicia Zamora


the dead are very patient*

Always whittling

an outside

from inside. Things to be

hollowed: ripe gourd, pig shoulder,

where seeds must go. {The eves} remember

your lips laden

in vowels

where whispers tongue

back what must be held.

Softness softens. The spider

crawls from out the crevasse –

vacuous conch shell –

webs out from the body

a kind of destruction

for all who float

weighted with venule

too bewitched {in silk

too lulled} in patterns of filament.

*from Jack Spicer’s After Lorca.

Ballad of Conjure

             for Jack's Terrible Presence

Pluck the dark

from behind a billion eyelids

paint sky with echoing

empty is not in the night

how the belly stores

clears space and spins

a womb happens without eyes

without candelabras

burning – here

in the calloused tufts

of skin below the ankles

of skin below the wrists

magic firing in furrows

cut in veined grooves

where all fruit as fruit

bears fruit. Sow

bulbs (plant us

all) and ovum (oh,

silkworm mother)

in wonder:

the frailest cocoon

swarms deep. What burns

boldest in the night

is the night.

A ghost's sagacity of

everything thimble

{thimble lifts} – visitors,

fingers in minute grooves

always foraging we

in places of keeping

light to ourselves: caves,

nut shells, the medulla oblongata –

infinity: a bee stinger’s tip

where {life

animates in hives

pointed dots swarm -scatter

out & out} – even specks

in lenses unhinge the jaws.

Six billion lips

part. {O thimble O.} What music

do we make? Haunting

our hums burn comets

up the spinal cord

spool silence out – a tether, a blood

vessel weighs of indents {guts

of thimbles} of oak limbs

scratching the pane, begging

entrance: a storm: a watch

ticking in a chest

stuffed with quilts.