Mary Jo Bang, p.2
FROM THE MOUTH OF ARCHITECTURE
for Leslie Laskey
On the facade, egg and dart meets the architrave
and in the arches, impost to impost,
the held breath
of a stopped real. Inside, she is object—
genre-bound precious in a white-walled vault.
This is how the self stays
a self, she says. Unbendingly. She tries
the glass paneled doors plaid-wrapped
in wrought-iron sleeves, all art-
deco. Locked, they served to keep her
behind herself where pictures are lashed
and alarmed, and words remain one
with their categories: plaqued, apt or inadequate.
Each frame is a frame and perspective embedded.
A message is also embedded (Don’t touch me).
The cartoon moon, the papaya with palm tree,
the face of the figure who went to his death
with a chiseled look. What more is there? Tears
and repentance? An amaryllis turns
to say good-bye. Good-bye. Enormous sky
page. Harmony of the player/eraser unreeling.
The impeccable natural when nature reveals
its true salt.
In the heart of the morning,
the evening. The ten o’clock window opens
and inquiry enters: Who are you?
Alice retracts what she said earlier. Says instead,
I’ll only be more reckless if ever I wake.
for Leslie Laskey
On the facade, egg and dart meets the architrave
and in the arches, impost to impost,
the held breath
of a stopped real. Inside, she is object—
genre-bound precious in a white-walled vault.
This is how the self stays
a self, she says. Unbendingly. She tries
the glass paneled doors plaid-wrapped
in wrought-iron sleeves, all art-
deco. Locked, they served to keep her
behind herself where pictures are lashed
and alarmed, and words remain one
with their categories: plaqued, apt or inadequate.
Each frame is a frame and perspective embedded.
A message is also embedded (Don’t touch me).
The cartoon moon, the papaya with palm tree,
the face of the figure who went to his death
with a chiseled look. What more is there? Tears
and repentance? An amaryllis turns
to say good-bye. Good-bye. Enormous sky
page. Harmony of the player/eraser unreeling.
The impeccable natural when nature reveals
its true salt.
In the heart of the morning,
the evening. The ten o’clock window opens
and inquiry enters: Who are you?
Alice retracts what she said earlier. Says instead,
I’ll only be more reckless if ever I wake.