gohst

 

-    - -
-

d r i v i n g    t h r o u g h    a    r e a l l y    e m p t y    r o o m

it was intensely morning-still, a moment-in-surprise, surmised
by the common-everything, the grave-off heat, off-heat
besides – it was in silence we were out, were we but out and passing
by – the grasses blown, their distance shone – a different kind
of knowing.



 

 

-    - -
-

a    w h i l d    r a b b i t    w h a t    h e    c a u g h t

is it a part of space. is it a gorse
in the glare of its own
lace-pattern, touching things
to discover them – to keep
with its tame and
to keep with its living –
no. it is not a part of space.
it is a gohst in the glare
and its going somewhere else –

 

 

-    - -
-

t h e   r o o m

the past two years she had been opening the door
and entering the room to make it beautiful.
she had been dusting and perfuming its curtains
so tidying and redecorating it was always
changing, getting older, getting better, as they say.

 

 

-    - -
-

e y e    n a b b e    c l o u t    n a s h o n

the lonely mammoth hides his light
and lights that would be flame
– with fronts the ants
they face their fronds –
and resteth him that rodeth

what each in life, his life he honors
blow northern winds, blow on it

ant fingers for a fire
for a fire for to hold –
in slep y slakeI ich, ye wake
en nabbe clout ne cloth naschon

eye nabbe clout nashon


 

 

-    - -
-

q u e s t    a n t i – q u e s t

the whole flight was an accident.
each molecule aviating
against itself and others –
– must we really linger here
much longer – and must
we really linger here longer –
– our fingers curl the stronger
into any other – darker – into
any other distance.

 

 

-    - -
-

t h e   r o o m

up to speed with her now. the door to the room locked
and she could no longer go there. everyone else could
see the room, which they put in a museum
with her name on it. but she could not get inside.


 

 

-    - -
-

a   d i f f e r e n t   k i n d   o f   k n o w i n g

they walk out unto the water and let me
tell you – they are meaningful. quiet
the clasp the sand that is
now cry, she says – for me.
for you – for who would know not where
this train is going – but that it is and has
been going ( they are quiet they are
mean ) – as a woman fell off
and her dog answered all ( these key things )


 

 

 

-    - -
-

t h e   r o o m

she’s in the mind of a millionaire’s wife
and she’s growing claws in the room
with four doors.
she pushed through its light.

 

 

 

-    - -
-

p i c k e t s   a n d   p i l o t s

return to the same flesh draped over
three frames – same boxes of ice
( what happens in here does not happen
outside ) – return to I want
the infection. but it is she is her rabbit
( in its very fine habit ) – the one
who is left here and the one who
is doing it –       – it –    she does it softly.

she returns to these same questions :
the pickets, the pilots, the all-compass
pranced. I will not name them.
I will not name them. I will
wait for my ( very fine )
form. I scream. I embrace her.
I won’t say where.


 

 

-    - -
-

h e r   g h o s t

 

so what is left when light abandoned
shapes were not so
deepened in the mist.
so what if we take hold. avé,
two-flight avé. if there were just one wing
so pure. ( we still would punch the moor )
to dissert these other
– silence –                     for false islands 
for to              

              folded in their forms is a ghost
             in my dreams is a quest anti-quest
             is a plant of invisible seeds          

for to look like other people
is a gohst in my dream to me –

 

 

Contributor

Sara Deniz Akant

Sara Deniz Akant's work has appeared in CutBank, jubilat, Lana Turner, and elsewhere. She is the author of Parades (Omnidawn 2014), Latronic Strag (Persistent Editions 2015), and Babette (forthcoming from Rescue Press this fall). She lives in New York.

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