Shira Dentz

Summer and winter clouds

troweling

Dank green and a woodshed in the backyard of my father’s parents’ house. tools and other objects in the shed announced worlds not yet known to me. I wanted to find ways to use them and imagined the worlds where they belonged. But still, a sense of threat weighed heavy like a lock. At six, what I was, tugging me. something my father wanted. As if I was the soil and he had the shovel, and I would be dug up. fear had a he and other ways I would incorporate mix and house—make fencerows—wanted worlds and was and use—and—threat unplaited what and who—slavered mechanized—a dark predictability was feeling shame to outcried dangling ghettoing shame————————

                               a 
                                   sense of threat, 
                                         weighed announced 
                               worlds not yet known for this 
                               feeling, or its 
                                       unspeakability 
                                      keep a lock. At 
                               six, what I was, 
                               tugging me. I 
                               wanted to keeps me dark. 
                                     six, 
                                        I would 
                               be dug up. That’s 
                                  all 
                                       I know to find ways to make up a 
                                        lock. At six, I was, tugging me. Something me. Something me. I was, 
                                        tugging me. Something me. 
                               I wanted to keep a 
                               buffer to 
                                 make up a lock. At 
                                     six, I wanted 
                               to 
                                  make 
                               up 
                                     a buffer to make up a buffer to keep a language for 
                                  now. And in my 
                                 father wanted to 
                               make 
                                       up a buffer to make 
                               up 
                               a buffer 
                                   to me. 
                                     Something I 
                               wanted. As 
                                    if 
                                      I wanted the shovel, 
                                     and confusion. I w

                               he had the soil 	
                                         and 
                                         heavy 
                                      like a lock.

Not Body

Amen to the peacocks congregating at dusk, fans 
of nature’s eye.

An orphan dusk on swan clouds.

Without a sewist or something to sew, grey 
branches entangle like a morass of thread. 

Shame’s gummy pink with roots for teeth yet 
absent of them. A stump a stand for what’s gone 
mute.

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