Two Poems by Jessica Baer

By  | November 2, 2014 | 1 Comment | Filed under: Poetry

 

Two Poems by Jessica Baer


The Church of Cattle Entrails

 

Even before the abductions started,
cattle burrowed their pain
& we borrowed their cowbells because
there was a church, there was
no church, there was only
the mineral of the eyes

the fossil in the branch
tearing out

G R A S S G R A S S G R A S S
G R A S S a  d e e r   G R A S S
G R A S S G R A S S G R A S S

nothing was or wasn’t
in it, nothing not of it
without knowledge we came
so loose that we
laid our cargo down
death hovered its saucers
& we were chasing there
was no church
only the following lights of the saucers

I wanted to draw up
through myself with that beam & visit
dead strangers who could conduit & crop
circles there was language
for conduits to come down

we were racing into amber
like murmuring prehistoric wasps there
was no church

there were schematics everywhere
which were hieroglyphs
which is what we are learning towards
as we nudge in the ground
they said their future was only image streams
dialectical starcharts,
because all diagrams are verbs
& predicates & vacant
they asked me what was sublunar
& how to tuck their bodies & tumble
if their ship caught fire in the sky;
they weren’t under the same dictums

none of the ghosts knew
how to pilot their ship
were as if haunted themselves
by cloud memories
which are stronger than ours, more
purple than ours or compassed graves

they said they were
drones of the heart & weaponized
silence; they just wanted
to poke around
the cattle viscera
of a living earth, & probe meat they’d
forgotten how to feel
or what tenderness was like, flexing
against its tools or scalpels

they asked to borrow a fork
but I was already eating myself
it tastes good, I said, gnashing my mouthful of heart,
it was gritty; I was messy
with the ghosts
they didn’t visit again, though we waited
were waited, there, where there was
no church to wait in

 

 

Deleuze Fucked My Mother

 

My mother was a drunk:
Diverge, recirculate
in bedrock
My Mother died time & again
came back to
florescent weather
in the threshing-
machine

& curve back new-
brained / unroofed
asking for questions, all wrong
like, was whose
Body, in here? A turbulence?
Seraphim did my, sisterdeath?
I followed-path (geodesic) &
crow winged in
me, Mother?
It mottled round
cocksquamous /
process out
clumsy hooves, that
lived all figures

Now: brindled, Now: blind mirrored
I horsed along was, will not go it
again.

 

 

 
Jessica Baer received her BA in Creative Writing from Georgia State University in 2011. She currently lives and works in Chicago. She translates poetry from Portuguese and loves horses.

 

 

 

 

 

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