How to Leave Her, and: Moment in Which the Self Moves under Song
- How to Leave Her, and: Moment in Which the Self Moves under Song
How to Leave Her
As a beautiful cut inthe frantic school of light,crouching on the gray rocksabove the trail. Her temple self,hissing. As forgotten whenthe mountain lion is gonein three exact leaps.
My running the sun down,seven miles from roads and homes,her tongue’s needle under every rib.A leg cramp through my fearwhen I stop to press a knucklein the knot. The sun and dust and Icatching up.
As a change inside, not dying.A report I will keep from rangersand neighbors—her beautiful cutlost on the rocks above the trail.I am changed by her not dying.The two of us in one story now. [End Page 43]
Moment in Which the Self Moves under Song
I drew into mea salt and bitter tongue that crestedand soaked the numb ladder through my limbs
and let you climb in,rung after rung. I meant to breathe,but I swallowed. And a world
that was spirit sang out.A redwood eased her clawon the window. I quivered.
Pulled off my knees, to slip outside the inlet,where a foghorn groaned like an old cowused to what was tearing through her.
Then fishing boats returningto Noyo Harbor ahead of a fog bankmotored in, gulls’ erratic circles
twisting after each boat, saviorsin mast lines screeching for castoffs.Across docks, passages filled
with men, ice chests, and netting.A dog trotted through the parking lot.Neon signs woke with blinking.
The quick agreement between tireand metal grating on the bridgeabove the harbor clipped and roared
toward town. Laughter and yellingbelow. Light through cypress gapsstung rooftops across the way.
A thrumming in my throat. Why can’t I getto the door? The numb ladder throughmy knees shook, and I tried [End Page 44]
not to be a child for the last time.The gulls soared. Heavy ropes knottedaround anchors strained. I choked
like a girl finished crying, mascaraand eyeshadow running from her gaze. I told her:You are flesh, now bow. Uncross your legs.
Your curve is open bounty pleasure.I kept my eyes closed.Boats gulped against the docks.
The redwood drew her craggy noteson the window through the fog.I climbed her branches out.
I made my mouth pretendto be seaworthy while the waveswashed in. I could not angle
myself into any further distance.I stood outside and watched the moonput her shadows away. [End Page 45]
amber flora thomas is the author of Red Channel in the Rupture, forthcoming in fall 2018; The Rabbits Could Sing, released in 2012; and Eye of Water, released in 2005, which won the Cave Canem Poetry Prize. A recipient of the Dylan Thomas American Poet Prize, the Richard Peterson Prize, and the Ann Stanford Prize, she is currently an associate professor of creative writing at East Carolina University.
