A girl rises out of the ground carrying roots in her mouth.<\/p>\n
I rise out of the ground carrying roots in my mouth.<\/p>\n
The way a city becomes a name I have mispronounced.<\/p>\n
Birds are here to share their bread with me. They see I am<\/p>\n
a fairy tale specter. As metal trees rise heavy on their<\/p>\n
roots, beneath me the pastoral hushes. I want to dig past<\/p>\n
legos and G.I. Joes into something more guttural. Nearly<\/p>\n
everyone will disapprove.<\/p>\n
The sky is dark. The sky is light. The sky is leaving.<\/p>\n
The hawks are flying. The hawks are soaring. The hawks<\/p>\n
are burning in the sun. The light is soothing. The light is<\/p>\n
suffering. The light turns dry in my throat. I am pivoting<\/p>\n
toward. I am carrying toward. I am whistling toward that<\/p>\n
old cottage in the woods. Dirt in the old country tells the<\/p>\n
truth of dirt. I put my ear to the Eastern European ground.<\/p>\n
A train is coming. A flask come undone at my belt. And<\/p>\n
the teeth. The yellow teeth. The brittle teeth. The teeth as<\/p>\n
roots of the murderous mouth.<\/p>\n
There are no roots. The ceiling is breeding with its gills<\/p>\n
tucked in like a bitter lung. It is peaceful in the electric<\/p>\n
blue light of air. Did you know large eggs in photographs<\/p>\n
are eyes? It is interesting to observe these eyes. They are<\/p>\n
mostly olive in color. Some animals are not real. Some<\/p>\n
squint up their eyes to weep. I know what the red one is<\/p>\n
thinking with its green eye and rudimental legs. He is<\/p>\n
sticking to his opinion. Organs of hearing correspond to<\/p>\n
other organs of hearing. Out of the pouch an egg, the first<\/p>\n
egg, the elliptical egg, the egg finds its way into spirit jar,<\/p>\n
the wonder-egg, the egg of a platypus, they laid eggs, they<\/p>\n
laid eggs to an even worse degree imagined, they laid eggs<\/p>\n
that were victim to human invasion, soft-shelled eggs,<\/p>\n
marsupial eggs, the playback of eggs as animals, as<\/p>\n
anatomical structures, fur eggs, pouch eggs, eggs of the<\/p>\n
gun, eggs of every female animal, the egg of a hollow tree<\/p>\n
in which it was hiding, the egg that had more teeth in its<\/p>\n
jaws than any other mammal, the egg that hatches to<\/p>\n
emergency without roots, the egg that hatches rooted to<\/p>\n
emerge.<\/p>\n
I saw ladies on the hill, the sound of buffalo humming<\/p>\n
buffalo dancing a buffalo dance.<\/p>\n
I know the grasses beneath their feet, the heave<\/p>\n
of breath through hot air.<\/p>\n
It is so 80s. Dying to be a friend to something<\/p>\n
four-legged. I wish I were a burr on some kind of hill.<\/p>\n
Where we ended up.<\/p>\n
A dog among the buffalo. A baby buffalo.<\/p>\n
You could never understand the deep, purple-blue storm<\/p>\n
among the buffalo. The lightning of the buffalo.<\/p>\n
Concealed by the shade of trees. Burning in the light of trees.<\/p>\n
History has not lived. It would have revealed on water flowing between.<\/p>\n
I will give it its arraignment. Its arrangement.<\/p>\n
History tastes me. I am incurable, human restlessness.<\/p>\n
Let me conceal. Let me eclipse. Let me revel in the still<\/p>\n
blue of its fabric. In the corridor of this.<\/p>\n
In the arms of this. Beside this. In the certainty of this heat.<\/p>\n
In the certainty of this heat I become water. I become one<\/p>\n
of those bathing women in museums. I bathe, pouring<\/p>\n
water on my hair. I have one foot in a basin. I have one<\/p>\n
hand on the wall. I have inspired many men to paint my<\/p>\n
hamstrings. It is amazing to be inside this body. To be<\/p>\n
seen for centuries, a naked, docile muse. Do you<\/p>\n
remember the time I poured blue paint on myself? I was<\/p>\n
naked then too. I pulled a scroll from the deep, rooted<\/p>\n
earth. I went underneath the grass to breathe as grass<\/p>\n
breathes.<\/p>\n
Andrea Rexilius <\/strong>completed her Ph.D. in Literature and Writing at the University of Denver. She is co-editor of Marcel Press. She is the author of To Be Human Is to Be a Conversation<\/em> (Rescue Press, 2011) and Half of What They Carried Flew Away<\/em> (Letter Machine Editions, 2012).<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" A girl rises out of the ground carrying roots in her mouth. I rise out of the ground carrying roots in my mouth. The way a city becomes a name I have mispronounced. Birds are here to share their bread<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":384,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[9926],"tags":[22005],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/721"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/384"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=721"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/721\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2275,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/721\/revisions\/2275"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=721"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=721"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=721"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}