Chapter 8: Grace & Tracery

Ali Scattergood, Grace, 2012

Tracery

Pluck the feathers down to the bone

and you’ll find that wings are not such

fragile things, beneath their gowns

of softness.  Unlike antlers, which

yearly shed their velvet to reveal

new points and branchings, these must

retain their froth or else they’re nothing

but maps of old trajectories, like veins.

There is a price to pay for flight—

call it upkeep, call it frippery—

this lacy masking of the framework

that, despite all its spiky strength,

could not otherwise begin to navigate

the soaring architecture of the skies.

Chapter 7: Wake Up & Fishing

Ali Scattergood, Wake Up, 2013

Fishing

Once a month, on the night

of no moon, you climb in

barefoot. The zodiac spins above,

its castoffs bobbing

into the mouth of the cave,

riding the dark water. Hunger

keeps you from sleep,

so you return again

and again to comb your fingers

through the rushing black

stuff you cannot see

except where it shines

like moving glass below

the floating lights. And if

you slip, you’ll be carried

downstream into deeper

darkness. And if you stay

away too long, your belly

will shrivel from lack

of light. At last you catch

a fistful of the burning

globes. Sometimes you

think you hear other feet

sliding softly over rocks

in the shadows. Do not

disturb them. You know

as well as they do how this

becomes a religion,

the kiss of your soles

against stone.

Chapter 6: Remember and At the Core

 Ali Scattergood, Remember, 2013

At the Core

Salty waters rise until they flood.

But you’re no longer simply flesh and blood,

something new grows roots, begins to bud,

awaits the fall of cleaner rain.

(The sky dispenses answers, though it won’t explain.)

Your belly glows, your body has forgotten its refrain.

And it’s no longer blood,

but something moonlit pulsing in those veins.

You bow your head and let your toes sink deep into the mud,

containing deep inside a thing you can’t contain.

Chapter 5: Holding and The Cave

Ali Scattergood, Holding, 2013


The Cave

I dream of the dark,

stepping over slippery rocks,

searching, by the glow

of my own garments.

Beneath these rough continents

lies hidden treasure;

somewhere beneath me

yawns a depth my waking mind

cannot comprehend.

In sleep, though, the chill

flavor of that emptiness

threatens to drown me,

sharper on the tongue

than cold sea water, than milk

squeezed from a handful

of constellations. Light

has no place here, but I can’t

escape my own glaze,

the only remnant

of the waking world. Until

I shed this white gown,

I can’t slip below

the surface. But I am in

no hurry. The cave

itself is the prize,

and the unbroken silence

it holds like a gem

in its jaws. What life

could prepare you for this dream?

What dreamer would strip

unquestioningly?