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Sister, the selvedge is a location and a pressure. Almost a seam, raw in its potential untwining. You are a snow globe; a bright red mutable desire. The city wept for days to put out your flames. Dear Tsunami, Dear Egress. A dress is a shape for housing you. Address is inescapable concern. To be seen. To be envisioned. Sister, I saw your fame in the empty envelopes you never sent. I saw your self-edge. Saw your blood-stained war you wore, unravel.
Kedves Nővér, A szegedge hely és nyomás. Szinte varrás, de nyers a potenciális nyakán. Ön egy hófehér, egy élénk vörös változékony vágy. A város napokig sírt, hogy tegye ki a lángjait. Kedves Tsunami, Kedves Egress. A ruha olyan formájú, hogy otthont nyújtson. A cím elkerülhetetlen aggodalomra ad okot. Látható. Elképzelni. Nővér, láttam a hírnevet az üres borítékban, amit soha nem küldtek. Láttam a saját széleit. Láttad azokat a háborúkat, amiket felderítettél.
Dear Sister, This seed place provides pressure. It is almost sewing but raw in its potential wreck. You are snow white, a lively red lustful desire. The city cried for days to put out its flames. Dear Tsunami, Dear Egress. The dress is in a shape to provide a home for you. The title is of inevitable concern. Visible. Imagine sister. I saw the fame in the empty envelope that I never sent. I saw your edges. You saw the wars you explored.
Alatta a szentírások jelképe, még egyikünk sem vallja be, hogy ilyen reménységgel rendelkezett. Szereted a membránt, részben bestiáris, részleges vér eskü. A paradoxon nem az, hogy a másik teste hogyan válik a saját testévé. Ez a rész nyilvánvaló, testem húsa, vérem vére. Mint a fogyasztás, a fogyasztás és a fogyasztás közötti kapcsolat.
Below is a symbol of scripture, yet none of us will confess hope. You like the beast. Its membrane of blood. The paradox is not how the other body becomes its own body. That part is obvious, flesh of my skin, blood of my flesh. Like the relationship between consumption, consumption, and consumption.
Szeretnék veled beszélni szívében. Azt mondani, hogy sajnálom, hogy a szálak nem kötöttek. Még mindig úgy érzem, hogy hozzám kötött. Még mindig a nevemben tartom a neved. Fogja meg, ki vagy, ki vagyok. Ugyanazt a színkéket látjuk. És ugyanazokat a bánatos sebeket énekeljük. Hallgatom az égbolt dalát. A madárért lettél. Amikor eső esik, tudom, hogy megérkezett.
I want to talk to you in her heart. To say I'm sorry the threads are not tied. I still feel bound to me. I still keep your name in my name. Hold who you are, who I am. We see the same color. And we sing the same wicked wounds. Listen to the song of the sky. You're the bird. When rain falls, I know it's here.
If I could understand what to say, I would betray the cleavage, the trophy, the corridor. Translate this item. I would be charcoal. You can shoot. You can go to the wall and leave a shadow where my breath has fallen. When you did not hear what I said. I said I would be charcoal. Do not shy away from my back. It's small. Swallow it. Be in the glass bathroom where it melts with crystal chandeliers and tile-shaped ribbons. You're agnostic. But I love you. Hydrogen. Hydrogen. Hydrogen. If you go, I'm scared. When you leave, I build it.
Here is a nest to fashion a place for yourself in the wider world.
Here’s a nettle branch.
An armory.
A mother-scream enclosed.
Memory moves away from poems.
As weather shifts, something else beckons.
My stuck swallows stitch beaks to the page.
A bright red cardinal crows.
This blank is a bed.
This surface, a deep current of white.
Curve away from the shadow you left.
Draw back.
The cardinal’s right.
Go toward sunlight or go toward sunrise.
Andrea Rexilius’ publications include three books of poetry: New Organism: Essais (Letter Machine, 2014), Half of What They Carried Flew Away (Letter Machine, 2012), and To Be Human Is To Be A Conversation (Rescue Press, 2011). She is currently Core Faculty in Poetry, and Program Coordinator, for the Mile-High MFA in Creative Writing at Regis University. She also teaches in the Poetry Collective at the Lighthouse Writers Workshop in Denver, Colorado.
This originally appeared on October 29, 2017