The Conservatory


by John Walser
     
    A cloud mast voice
    a piano I can’t ignore
    
    creek water lilt
    billow seep from 
    the manor house:
    
    iridescent as blue votive
    as fuchsia pollen 
    as vein flames
    
    as the dusk of her skin.
    
    Velvet leaved
    I braid the table’s
    wrought vines
    to snag
    a tussle of crows.
    
    Fading sunlight
    through mineral grit
    storm sediment
    glass
    facet divides me:
    cubist shadows 
    and heat.
    
    In the thickening dust
    somewhere
    men and women
    potato drill tiller ride
    their voices
    drift stump heavy
    as lichen weathered
    headstones
    drop spud hard and cool
    to the silt.
    
    Soon					 
    Blake’s angels will flare 			
    against the clouds:
    
    soon the pink sirens
    will turn almost violet
    like burning gorse.
    
    This afternoon
    in my room
    I lifted large wings
    orange and brown 
    as autumn ground
    to stop 
    the between raised pane 
    and top pane
    fluster of percussion.
    
    An onion skin sky:
    out the window 
    it arced away
    twice returning 
    though.
    
    Now
    I follow the darkening thread:
    the iron back chair
    the shell shadows
    a lover’s thumb crease and swirl
    a hair left shower drain essed
    bird calls like bent 
    and nail scratched colors.
    
    In a week it will be too cold
    to sit out here
    even during the day.
    
    In two weeks the Midlands air
    like hammer and string
    will sound with open pedals.
    
    In three weeks I will have
    to acknowledge
    leaving.
    
    Now though I make myself 
    promises about motion:
    
    the chrysalis dormant for years			 
    the gentle basement corner			
    refrigeration:
    
    how carried in a pocket
    the furnace of skin
    powdered wing quickens it
    like origami unfolded:
    
    how in my sleep 
    a flurry of moths
    lachryphagous
    with soft proboscises
    drink from my tear ducts:
    
    I breathe my skin.
    I cleanse my palette:
    
    how I have split like silk
    to perch now upon 
    stone fountain pool
    orchid petals.
    
    
Packingtown Review – Vol.16, Fall 2021

John Walser's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in numerous journals, including Barrow Street, Nimrod, december magazine, Spillway, Lumina, the Pinch, Dressing Room Poetry Review, Yemassee, Iron Horse, and Lunch Ticket, as well as the anthology New Poetry from the Midwest 2017. A four-time semifinalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize and a Pushcart nominee, Walser is the recipient of the 2015 Lorine Niedecker Poetry Award from the Council of Wisconsin Writers.

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