ISSUE 6 · SPRING 2011




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Copyright © 2011

J. A. Tyler





Variations of a Brother War

( Dream Ache Triptych )

J. A. TYLER



Spoons as Shovels


Gideon tunnels through the forest, pulling his weight on his arms, crawling through a hole the size of a heart, blossoming out into the open. The buttery air, the smooth clouds. The inside of Eliza. Where her hands should be. This is Gideon growing into a river, in love with a lake. This is an ocean in the outers. Clogged down the water is a boat made of ribs, is a canoe made of hurt or lust, Gideon floating openly into the shark-salt of being in love or of Eliza or of holding his rifle poised at his brother’s head.


Core & Trees


The nature of Eliza is to sew up her eyes, to cease watching, to blind. Eliza peels the apples, snakes the skin around and around. Eliza clenches the swollen seeds until they disappear into her skin. Until Eliza is an apple tree in a grove stacked one against the others, all the heavy boughs, the soughing wind and sailing and exhaustion. A place where Eliza can be, to be out of love. An apple does not love, it can only be quartered and disseminated. It cannot be proud. It cannot start a war that ends in two bodies infinitely falling.


Undone From


What happens is that Miller falls in love with Eliza. What happens is that Gideon falls in love with Eliza. What happens is that Eliza buries herself in apple blossoms and rifles. What happens is that Miller and Gideon are born brothers. What happens is a slender footprint of genesis. What happens is that the fruit begs low and everyone crawls aboard, limbs like ship-planks. What happens is that nothing can work, and then there are no people left to pull the clouds. What happens is that the axe used to fell the trees is only touching one person’s palms.