Altar of Melancholy
This is not spiritual pilgrimage or dive into restraint,
the recluse in dark, baggy clothes, hair shorn, head
bent low over Birkenstocked feet. This is
doubling back into a wide blank field where air turns
the color of water rusted in aged pipes, whispers its
insatiable need to rekindle fire into angry blue sticks.
I am haunted by the cadence of desire: stolen
blackberries dropped into chilled wine, rolled between
my teeth, the end-crust of expensive bread. Tonight
even the moon reflects another’s light, its desire
for a fleshed-out image, round instead of halved, as real
as my need for absolution. This is not spiritual pilgrimage,
but the child gone adult, fingers purpled with stolen
fruit, mouth stuffed with wine-soaked bread, with more
than illusion to lay on the altar.
Three Forms of Indecision
I have become a tri-fold
a paper accordion: one
moment an obstinate crow
with voice, eggs just
hardening in promise
the next a slight dancer
without fear of my partner
letting go—then a crow
again—comes the musky
scent of winter
clumps of sodden leaves;
I become the changeling
a third thing not even I
expected: the mare ready
to throw her rider.
underwater origami
it began with a drowning
her going under
his following
an old devotion like folded
handkerchiefs or origami
birds fashioned from scratch paper
metal being hammered into the shape
of luck
luck being hammered
into fire
theirs was not the dance of opposites
stepping on left and right footprints
red and blue patterns laid out by teachers
they could not trust
it was more catching the wave on its crest
and following it to shore
breathless
unsure
when their thought became too large
for either of them to carry
they buried it in
desert sand
half-way between snow and
coastal fog
they asked what it meant
when ice plants
appeared in ridges of waxy purple
questioned each other
without words
at last they bent to the gods
begged to know
how two can discretely
begin a necklace of cranes
open their eyes at the
same moment
the necklace intricately
linked and them
breathing evenly
underwater
This is not spiritual pilgrimage or dive into restraint,
the recluse in dark, baggy clothes, hair shorn, head
bent low over Birkenstocked feet. This is
doubling back into a wide blank field where air turns
the color of water rusted in aged pipes, whispers its
insatiable need to rekindle fire into angry blue sticks.
I am haunted by the cadence of desire: stolen
blackberries dropped into chilled wine, rolled between
my teeth, the end-crust of expensive bread. Tonight
even the moon reflects another’s light, its desire
for a fleshed-out image, round instead of halved, as real
as my need for absolution. This is not spiritual pilgrimage,
but the child gone adult, fingers purpled with stolen
fruit, mouth stuffed with wine-soaked bread, with more
than illusion to lay on the altar.
Three Forms of Indecision
I have become a tri-fold
a paper accordion: one
moment an obstinate crow
with voice, eggs just
hardening in promise
the next a slight dancer
without fear of my partner
letting go—then a crow
again—comes the musky
scent of winter
clumps of sodden leaves;
I become the changeling
a third thing not even I
expected: the mare ready
to throw her rider.
underwater origami
it began with a drowning
her going under
his following
an old devotion like folded
handkerchiefs or origami
birds fashioned from scratch paper
metal being hammered into the shape
of luck
luck being hammered
into fire
theirs was not the dance of opposites
stepping on left and right footprints
red and blue patterns laid out by teachers
they could not trust
it was more catching the wave on its crest
and following it to shore
breathless
unsure
when their thought became too large
for either of them to carry
they buried it in
desert sand
half-way between snow and
coastal fog
they asked what it meant
when ice plants
appeared in ridges of waxy purple
questioned each other
without words
at last they bent to the gods
begged to know
how two can discretely
begin a necklace of cranes
open their eyes at the
same moment
the necklace intricately
linked and them
breathing evenly
underwater
Colette Jonopulos
Colette Jonopulos lives, writes, and edits in a small yellow house in Eugene, Oregon. Her poetry
has appeared in Clackamas Literary Review, Crab Orchard Review, cho, HeartLodge, Big Pulp,
Admit Two, and Yellow Mama. Rattlesnake Press published her chapbook, The Burden of Wings, in
2005. She currently co-edits and publishes Tiger’s Eye: A Journal of Poetry. Poetry has become her
work, as well as her obsession. http://www.rattlesnakepress.com/Colette_Jonopulos.html
has appeared in Clackamas Literary Review, Crab Orchard Review, cho, HeartLodge, Big Pulp,
Admit Two, and Yellow Mama. Rattlesnake Press published her chapbook, The Burden of Wings, in
2005. She currently co-edits and publishes Tiger’s Eye: A Journal of Poetry. Poetry has become her
work, as well as her obsession. http://www.rattlesnakepress.com/Colette_Jonopulos.html
