Pull the Silkscreen from the Water & Break It Over Your KneeJulia Cohen & Mathias Svalina
1 If you wither into a cup of silver hair, collect in the corner of the woodshed. Only then will the drawbridge carry you over the flood of family names. We wove a cummerbund of bee stings into a functioning jacket. You're dumbfounded on a tree-snag that caught the silk scarf your grandmother dangled behind the motorcycle. This family tree weeps breastmilk & formaldehyde, sucks you under the bed & shakes you out again down the silver slide. The lawn is mowed & raw for you to rip the roses, reduce the child's gift to a butterknife lost below the foldout bed. 2 You canker by the old fence where the hedgehog sleeps. We hang wet clothing to dry what is closer to home, closer than where I let you. You step into the swamp, smoking of half-sunk kites, a cloud of fog that stinks of tin & diesel. Wick the morning into a sound that will mire your wheels in a drive-way, a mother angling the afternoon into a glass of caramel. We dunk the motor in lemon juice, how a priest waits beside the mailbox for another priest. 3 These aren't ponies in three parts, only slipshod attempting to inch up the hill. The rodeo is a rink we skate under & out of to the blue rope of the grass. The drawbridge pulses like a corpse. Earwigs infest the grandfather clock. The same cold vocal tic: I've stood by the roadside, film stock collecting trees felled by their own stance. 4 Expect a slurring dolly & clouds of iodine to spill from your gilded cup. You can act tough or I can, but someone has to catch the draw-bridge when it falls. I thought a thought of frog-skin phonographs. I saw the motor & the tree that gnarled around the motor through the years.
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