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Three Poems
by Lucas Farrell


EX-TENDED FAMILY

When it rained white
(Xerox paper whites
of eyes)—blackbirds
in a care package,
wingless and smiling—
the family thought:
time to rake the leaves!
The son climbed the food
chain all the way to the attic;
he was hoarse,
dried ink,
stale bread, levee.
The daughter made love on
a concrete stair, left a stain
the size of breath, the color
of breath, the breadth
of breath.
When the rain let up,
it never did;
the stair became reclusive,
covered in stamen,
alone in the street.
Roots became lung-
flaps, kindling,
clever doormats.
Parents predicted weather,
studied astrology,
wove black feathers.
Palms stuck to palms,
treated paper-cuts
in nuanced measure.
Every shade there was
in the ever before
never would & then some be.
Dead folks noticed
why they never noticed
the earth spinning:
wet hair, drenched teeth,
wet drenched hair teeth.

STITCHES

I sliced the torso with a razor
& pinched the heart to see
if it would flap like a fish
& cut my wrist with its scales.
The bird fell from the sky.
Let me be clear:
The bird. It fell from the sky.
& I was the first to discover
it there. I happened to have
a razor because I was told
I should shave. Instead, I
sliced the torso & sniffed.
It smelled like a fish.
A bird smells like a fish.
& I was relieved because
I had long thought it true.
I said to them, listen.
Let me be clear:
The scales will slice my
wrist, that’s why I want gloves
you fucking asshole hicks.
It’s not that I am a girl.
I am not.
It’s just that,
do you want me to smell
like that? I will smell
like a fish. & you wonder,
you wonder why I shave?
Do fish shave? Do birds?
Do birds shave? Answer me.
Answer me, you hick fuck.
What do you have
to say, now? Here.
Here it is.
It fell from the sky.

FINGERS POINT AT THE NEW MOON RISING

I had a thing for her, she had a thing for feathers.
There was talk of entablatures
and song. The drive was long and we felt
lathered. It was early evening.
I knew no one, everyone knew her.
We knocked on the door.
They were not projected home. They were
home. She struck a deal with each
of them, we crossed a creek, I felt alone,
a creek we had crossed before. Caddis husks
in a tin can. The sun was starving, mute
black. We led ourselves to the door:
we were in a valley, plugging our eyes
with ointment. We were capable
and lathered. There was buzzing
in the bulrush, apostate sky (the migrating ones
were good and gone). I held the meadowlark
thrashing, tight as I could. I thrust it against her
breast. The sky was a jet stream. It burst through seams
of feathered flesh, a drinking fountain,
ice cold, plugged-in, insects. We shut our eyes
and listened. Wind in the grass. November.
The awes of the water wheel’s steady
dripping.