James White

Dance of Five

 

They stand, a dole

waiting for take off;

 

five in side light

learning how to flock—

 

a rise on their skin

answers movement

 

on each current,

responsive flight,

 

until one leads a dive,

an unexpected

 

bank out far,

leaving forms

 

of four others

still in shadow.

 

 

Flash Board II

 

 

C11 …….

I exercise at the wayside, pacing

stationary on call—there was gunfire, and

yellow boxcars, delineated, this year

there must be a lull in the juniper;

in season I hear my name scratch like a quill,

a  mantra lying to be helped (it’s just an inkling),

there was an uneasy reliance in telegraphs.

 

B2 …….

January treads in the owlry, fleeting

decisions, her gut wrenched—

the old school square’s hightower

bell tones exercise for apathy,

buys everyone drinks. Us evidendly

turned on by argument. Joyce calls

revered and livid.

 

A4 …….

This is for you, it can give you

the support you deserve—

a nearing pink tender swerve

that gathers diagonally like roots

hit loose from the sides

above you—a key snapped

in the door waits for projects.

 

E1 …….

Open Air Museum, cold-fought

candlewicks—a choked-out eulogy,

a mare in front of an ivy wall;

old England’s neighborhood scripture.

I place an origami swan beside the fence

hoping it feeds her dreams.

 

Terpsichore Recounts

 

 

First, there’s

1. Time
2. Space
3. Weight

and      4.    Flow

 

then     5.    one quiet forward

6. the response of ten till house
7. the needle by your soles
8. the rotating stage

I call it

9. Movement theory
10. How people sometimes forget how to use words
11. The reliance on the bend of the legs to keep you down

 

how     12.  I could show you those moments

13. The ones/fours
14. I can turn them over for you like tall chapters
15. I can leave the doors open
16. I can even help count you in

 

 

Picturing a Belljar

 

Reach inside and pluck away

the vocal folds of the young translator;

she is the choral shaker and versed silencer,

perched to ask whether anyone else might be

here with her, others whose eyes can read the

language of inability like fingertips that point to

a girl who hangs from a tree. Tell me about doves,

little one. The word always taut in your hands. Only

in passing have you learned to verbalize it, thinking

backward for its root, the shape—before it dissipates

through to the roads below;  how it filters onto the

outstretched tongue of a girl who was told everything

must happen for a reason.