Julia Kiernan
Clepsydra
Dear John Ashbery,
John, I stared at the air looking for my surroundings and they barely showed up in time. Dangled from a flesh ledge of a body into time, language penetrated itself. Like a squirrel upside down on a tree trunk flicking its tail, screaming. He would have you believe that he is in charge, just because he is screaming. Some creator who momentarily stepped away, became a squirrel, and is now screaming the truth about the sound a squirrel makes when it screams.
Oranges huddle in their crouching red mesh on my desk in the dark. The ambulances fuss in the outer realms of my ear drum. All this and nothing about you, John. Tonight, the only thing about you is me. The stomachache of out-the-window. I’m looking at it right now. I do owe you something. That thing is so silent to my heart that it might be a reason, in the same way a birth canal is a reason. Your dowry, John. Here is a fraction of it: my pigeons, a clan who sunbathe on the roof of the church across the street every morning. They don’t even know what you are. In this way, we are kin. We pigeons don’t know what you are.
It’s tomorrow. The pigeons left for what was over there. Poets and pigeons might do things for the same reason. I’ve said before that you’re a comfort. I want you here. This writing to you is far too much of me. I think what I miss of you is your hereness which somehow could stop
_________. From ever deeper heights, the deluxe fallen angels.
Love,
Julia