A sparrow smacks the steel sky and doubles back
to where the river tumbles black on black. Storms,
electric, falsify. The blossom of your hand is fact.
In the lumberyard, stray dogs find a rabbit, snap its neck.
Elsewhere, lightning strikes a shepherd’s flock.
He, who does not own the sheep, drags a body home to eat.
Immense unrest, deep green. The rush cannot come soon enough –
the fever’s break, the downpour, the cascade. There isn’t
anything at stake. A kiss is nothing but the wish to kiss,
a half-remembered madness, a dangerous over-swelling
of the brain. Anything might bring it on – the city’s smell
when wet, a palm leaf’s genuflection to the rain.
I left you asleep on flowered sheets, or you left me.
It does not matter now; it’s all the same. The teapot
crouches on the stovetop, a cold man to a flame.
The memory of heat lives in the mouth. The moment
of attainment is a loss. No effort of the tongue can speak
to my conceit, nor chart itinerant continents of the heart.
No effort, none at all, can tether to the bed the cloud
that lifts and lingers in the door, then slips outside to pearl
the afternoon that rises from the pipes of market wives.
All storms blow out and stars come spilling in.
The mind as well, filaments intact, pours back into the hollow
of the frame. Let’s not collect the parts without the sum.
Let’s redirect the rainwater instead. Let’s steep our tea.
I’ll fill the kitchen with remembered smells if you will start
by peeling me an onion, Love. Peel to its heart.
Gabriella Fee lives in Cambridge, MA. Her work has been published in The Wellesley Review and The Blue Pencil, and is forthcoming in Levee Magazine. She has been a featured reader at the Boston National Poetry Month Festival and the Lizard Lounge Poetry Jam. Gabriella is a graduate of Wellesley College, where she studied queer theory and perfected the craft of microwave nachos. This fall, she will begin her MFA in the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University.