Thursday Night Poetry
Tonight it's Anne Winters, from her new book The Displaced of Capital, which I just received today. I bought it solely on the recommendation of my friend Simone, and haven't had a chance to read much yet, but what I've read, I like. I'm posting the poem titled "Villanelle," in part because I've never been able to write one, even a bad one, and in part because Winters seems to write long, sectioned poems, and I'm not going to type out four pages worth of poetry for a blog post. I'm lazy--shoot me.
Bone-ivory thins out to sparkling gauze,
and the helices spell out their last revisions:
cascades of microscopic cellular flaws.
Dark quadrants in the X-rays of my jaws
mark the retreating toothbed, new excisions,
the ivory thinned out to sparkling gauze.
The synovial sea that bathed my knees withdraws,
leaving bone nubs to clickings and collisions,
cascades of calcium, microscopic flaws.
What's worse, this age of ice-flares and failed thaws
that might clear nights for auroral visions,
instead blows through my sleep like cradle-gauze,
filled with nursery-rockers, pastel night-lights: straws
that wove about those years of small decisions
a screen against the tide of cellular flaws.
Why should the ova and the menses pause
for this bleak text of lapses and elisions:
bone-ivory thinning out to sparkling gauze,
cascades of tiny intracellular flaws.