Amy, Amy, at this distance you’re
the smell of liver,
tinnitus that keeps me up, afraid:
your fortressness must now be tested.
The way you took me in without
a surfeit click or
gesture: seagull kerchief
binding my gut to safety
on the swimming haul
among night-images. I went to the place I was born
and it plainly was a bride. So I ran after her.
When she turned into a star I swallowed her.
And out of this uneasiness will come
Amy, I’m inside my granddad’s mind of wood:
the grass is finer, constellations thicker.
The plums are normal. How
much sugar did you buy
alone at Waldbaums?
Brook reeds here
wake from your hair’s soul’s chilly patronage.
The hair’s the soul, the reeds
its body—alone in their beds
I feel and feel them up.
have made them crazy! But a rabbit someone
flows out of the embankment
and I shiver for you, Amy
oh lengthy dappled wig:
there’s a swan in your breathing.
There always is.
Ana Bozicevic, "Swan" from Stars of the Night Commute. Copyright © 2009 by Ana Bozicevic. Reprinted by permission of Tarpaulin Sky Press.
Source: Stars of the Night Commute (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2009)