Emily as a Choke of Silk
Delicate beam, thickened
in celebration of an induced
vision, we have seen the barn
on fire, but the barn has never
been on fire. We have seen
the rivers emptied, but the sky
has only grazed our veins,
kissing them with degrees
of warmth. We have, with
each other, been shoulder
blade to shoulder blade
with death, but not once
have we given a name
to that world, the one where
we don’t exist together,
the one where the names we
speak give us no safety at all.
* * *
Emily as Written by William Elliot Whitmore
The levy is an idea
& her shoulders,
that is a flood we
never could plan for,
but those sandbags
I kept around
the black locust tree,
they came in handy,
when Emily took me,
before she took
the rest of the town.
* * *
Emily as the Skin of Ocean Water
Grisly service, our shore
is a promise made to the dead,
but a promise that carries
so much absoluteness with it,
it can only keep the art
of losing buried beneath
the first, extending roll. After
love becomes an option
we look at each shell we pick up
as an empty sausage casing,
a disgusting absence that tasted
once like a silver bone
that never held fat, only sinewy
muscle that led it to expire
in our waiting hands.
If we stand next to the ocean
long enough, we will believe
only in the filth of the ocean,
but if on a trip we were to see
the tide retreating, our lives
will feel unthreatened forever.