Anatomies
I lay myself
against these sentences
not knowing
if it is against myself
winter crawled in on fingers
and toes
stood before me
and I waited
before me appeared
a state of affairs
would become me
against cold cement
everything’s winter
the air moves steadily on
cement is
as pages are
I press myself
into them stand before
the flattened image
and wait
a numerically different
carbon copy
folded crosswise
Repeat
I lay myself
against knowing
myself and
push into the page again
still knowing
what it is to wait
I am reminded of
your hands, skin, the touch
the reaching of hands
the climbing of feet
the presence of your chemistry
stretched out in front of me
lying within view
the composite of you
and me the chemistry of
you and me
I prefer the insides
the darkness the memory in the
longing I prefer those things
and the softness which resides in
your smile, lips
the gums which hold it all together
in front of me
I envy the blood and ventricles
that comprise your tissue
I shall miss you longingly
I shall miss the reaching
of hands the climbing of feet
no more shall I awake and manifest
myself in me I shall eat your
manifestation of you and breed
the children of our dark insides
the light pulse the swinging beneath
the composition
beneath the chemical occurrence
of us
I smile, aware of what
holds it together
I smile on the inside
I make up for it in blood
and my bones have decided to
honor that and the way
we comprise each other
my bones have decided
to keep the tissue for the harvest
I am climbing beneath you
reaching for skin that
cannot be reached by the physical
the touch and the boundaries
are defined but not well
and I am reaching for the
breathlessness of our chemistry
I am reaching
out to you
for you
you lie in wait
our wait is that
of chemistry
of our composition
(excerpt from longer poem)
Bio: Mattie Achord
I started writing as soon as I could hold a tool, make a scratch
Into paper, into you
A scribe of tornado season
I was born in the shadows of the Mississippi,
Filtered by the Rockies
I have purified myself in the waters
Of the Vltava
And in the springs of the Sudetenland
I have casted flies into Cub Creek
In the valley of bears
Western sky expanse
All spread out into one
Not just geographical points on a map
But first snows casted into my heart
These days are spent again in those shadows
I hijack poetic thought, strangle it
And force myself to hold what I once held dearly
A pen
That tortured girl is dead but
Can this old woman I've become create
Magic, raise the dead, or speak into the rivers of her own soul?