my tail, like a ribbony
marker, giving me away,
the cover pulled down
cozily over me,
blanket,
coffin-lid,
hatch on my ship.
Sing hand-heft, spine-crack,
dog-ear. Page
after page in waves,
conducted by a finger.
Riffle-music. Friends
dumbly voluble, their
solid shoulders on my shelf.
May I carry yours home after school?
Dangled by a strap around them.
The guts of a satchel
spilled on the dining-room table.
The valley of one opened,
cleavage of intelligence,
two mounds of mother-language.
In the flames of those
afraid of it, it can burn,
its power airborne.
[+]
Philip Dacey’s latest of eleven books is Mosquito Operas: New and Selected Short Poems
(Rain Mountain Press, 2010). The winner of three Pushcart Prizes, two NEA grants, and a Fulbright to Yugoslavia, he has written entire collections of poems about Gerard Manley Hopkins, Thomas Eakins, and New York City. His website is www.philipdacey.com
(Rain Mountain Press, 2010). The winner of three Pushcart Prizes, two NEA grants, and a Fulbright to Yugoslavia, he has written entire collections of poems about Gerard Manley Hopkins, Thomas Eakins, and New York City. His website is www.philipdacey.com