Holy Movies by Merridawn Duckler

 

Jona

Holy Movies

When I was a child

I was a child of the Super 8 

my positive image in reversed stock, 

my father a whirr,

my mother a skirt waft 

as we strode toward the little eye

hands held red rover, no one may break through.

Now movies play again re-mastered with mad color 

my mother crying, her tears trouble me; 

why do I care nothing for the past?

A discontinued technology which owes us nothing.

Nor care for any future;

the world that never existed,

who dares record it?

Behind me my watchful sisters

whisper each name: Geordie, Heidi 

Alysia whenever a face appears and I think

as I did then, for I believed no film could fail:

here I am, unretouched, my gait the same,

following no one to oblivion. I have no master,

not even the lines on the street.

Previously published in The Virgina Normal Journal

© Merridawn Duckler Enjoy other posts by Merridawn Duckler HERE.

Meridawn Duckler

Merridawn Duckler is a writer and visual artist from Oregon and author of INTERSTATE (dancing girl press), IDIOM (Washburn Prize, Harbor Review), MISSPENT YOUTH (rinky dink press), and ARRANGEMENT (Southernmost Books). She won the Beullah Rose Poetry Contest from Smartish Pace. She has work published in Seneca Review, Interim, Posit, Plume, Massachusetts Review, and Ninth Letter.

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imitatio dei by Merridawn Duckler

 

Luis Felipe

imitatio dei

When I want a world, I want it yesterday;

at parties, I’m awkward but believe my absence would be noted.

At work, I’m assured nothing arrives some way

though I have no confirmation, only the great jade ocean

slipping on the surface of the world like a marble

the sky, a blue canvas over the world rim

or a jar of school paste under the blue-lined pages trembles.

No one imagines me as a child because what never begins

can’t end. But if I was a child, I was one who made things.

I made my eyes two light switches, lying in bed, 

sliding trees off my fingertips, wearing planet rings

starlight reflected off my fingernail bed

on the street where I’d hidden a hard charcoal heart

under heavy rock: this was how diamonds started. 

Previously published in Anti-Heroin Chic

© Merridawn Duckler Enjoy other posts by Merridawn Duckler HERE.

Meridawn Duckler

Merridawn Duckler is a writer and visual artist from Oregon and author of INTERSTATE (dancing girl press), IDIOM (Washburn Prize, Harbor Review), MISSPENT YOUTH (rinky dink press), and ARRANGEMENT (Southernmost Books). She won the Beullah Rose Poetry Contest from Smartish Pace. She has work published in Seneca Review, Interim, Posit, Plume, Massachusetts Review, and Ninth Letter.

Follow Feed the Holy