Being, by Eireann Lorsung

May 25, 2007

Being

A letter is holy. A story
is holy hands reaching out into the world.
Birds come home
across distance I can’t conceive

and live in their bodies.
Ash in the air. Every place I’ve been
is on fire with words.

One day
I throw away all my love letters
without noticing. Mountains

in the heart.
What belongs
to me? I leave the world
all the time. These arms, these

fingers, this tongue, these feet,
and their bent wings. I know
it will be dirt, the prayers

now in marrow will retake
earth. I will live inside whatever flies.
Burning, the brink of all things.

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Oblivio, by Artie Moffa

May 1, 2007

Oblivio

The doctors who have made senility
Their subject say we pave a neural path
Anew when we recall a memory.
If this and genes are true, the awful wrath

Of plaques and proteins gathers in the gloam
And bides its time. Someday, should doctors care
To analyze my brain, they will see where
You kissed me in my youth and founded Rome.

When other memories are tattered cloths,
I’ll fold and keep the flag of that first kiss,
Defend it from old age as Visigoths
Beseige my brain. All pathways lead to this.

Physicians of my final days, note well:
I kissed her on the Seventh Hill.

Rome fell.

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