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Деена Линетт/ Deena Linett
| Jury Duty I. Your number’s up. Cliff edge is a window-ledge, twelfth floor New Courts Building, Essex County. Below, the snow’s been four feet deep for weeks. Cops patrol and we’re locked in as if by serving time we would develop empathy. Clouds sweet as cream drift across the skies where they are free. Twelve-eighteen’s my new I.D., hotel room, flight number, war lottery. II. After the change of government begin with the maps, newly revised. Ignore the stars. They will not be there when you need them. You’re in altered relation to the spray of light on dark. Now you see the galaxy edge-on, spinning all the way toward the beginning. Your compass says south is a range of mountains with a glacier whose flow’s shape is music you know but can’t sing; you are west of fields of purple flowers and east of a salt sea. Where are you? Why have they left you here? What is your task? What will you devote yourself to? What Takes Us Down The weight, as of seas heaped with swells, of history streaked with Baltic tourmaline, rose quartz and cobalt seamed with gold, pyrite sparkling here and there along corridors of dark that go all the way back to the beginning -- and perhaps beyond. Evil witnessed and imagined, tides of vengeful wishes those you know have told you and intermittent daily showers of malice. You thought it was Time. It is these that crease flesh, loosen its hold on your bones. These, wind in wild grasses, creatures’ silver flickerings through groundwater bearing blood and breath our Time is made of. | |
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