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Flower Conroy

Elegy of the Tigerwolf

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Yours is an afterlife of devil’s waltz strawberries. I meant no trespass. Close your mouth, open your eyes. The negative meaning being: throat of howl & electricity behind the blindness. A mock sun, a lost cloud. Babbling wildflowers impale themselves upon their stalks, frothing bubbles. I screamed ferns. From age of moonset, until around 5:15—when dawn’s first streaks appear in the east—the sky will be moodring & darkle. Silence is the combination of all colors. It is written: I am Made perfect thru the blood…I cover my doorpost & possessions with the blood… & Let me Speak the mystery… But what is mystery & what is blood. Angel wings & daisies sprout in the vacancies your footprints have left. In you is all of heaven. When you appeared after such absence—phantasmagoria, shadows within shadows—a vision I could not reckon. What but illusion is heaven? Meaning, here’s some jam for your bread—& a smattering of honeybutter.

Orangutan (also spelled orang-utan, orangutang, or orang-utang) Elegy

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Sun drains. Your name translates: Forest People. Mine, into girl. Bad luck to look you in your face as you sit gazing for hours. Voyeur God created universe, forsakes it thereafter: deism. If you swallow a rock: monsoon rains. If you swallow a stone: geophagy. The laws of physics speak the binding equations. You ‘blaze’ in light, disappear virtually into shadow. Something about your bright pongo hair. You’re like me—solitary. Large leaf umbrella, broken. Promise: with body entire, nature reclaims as its own what we abandon.

Elegy of the Cricket

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God saved the queen but gulls saved the crops—from our restless leg syndrome, our cutlery artillery, we whom descended apocalyptic upon the grain. Foretelling a stranger’s approach with our quietness, or tweedling impending rain. Confined in captivity—we make lucky pets. Children of violin & flower, we spring winged—slick & whistling—then chew your stockings ‘to socks. Peanuts, young roots, the blighted pumpkins—what don’t we crave? What an octave one strings of letting go—perched on a rock plucking insatiable, songs from a harp. While one gone mad with the faint scent of sugar loosens soil with its face—carries the earth away on his back, grain by grain—like Atlantis! Sound rising—as of a train speeding through moonlight. Unleashed, clumsiest of the clumsy, in our royal furies we devour everything. Even each other.

Snail Mourning

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You hide inside yourself. I’m not the one who’s afraid to be touched. Crafted of tongue & mica, flesh you call home. A cave’s the whole hole of itself, a trumpet or tuba’s mouth, its soundmoon. I familiarize myself with being alone. Without feeling—you glide along the edge of a razor. Of all flora to conjure Aphrodite: tuberose, with its scent of skin under the veil—from a vast distance you smell her, detect her from among the thistle—a patch of perfume not your own on the collarbone. You circle, slow irregular stroll—a radius the length a cricket’s pitch. Body, a gill in the garden unflinching—how naked, how exposed you are—a lung of night sails—without your shell.

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