Archive for October 23rd, 2020

Friday, 23 October 2020

Poem in Which the Trojan Horse Burns Blue by Madeleine Wattenberg

On the wine-darkened carpet, I’m waiting
for a new word that allows me to depart
from this room. Until then, I use other
makeshift horses. Like that ship-in-a-bottle
you crookedly glued. It wants to be tinder,
easily ignites. What left but to throw it
in the fireplace and watch the glass collapse.
The beauty of fire resides in its insistence
on leaving something behind. A shadow
or ash-fleck harbored in the lung. Heat.
I don’t wash my hair for ten straight years
and each day the oil drips down my back,
a just-in-case gasoline that I keep close by.
I’ll bring you to your knees by any means,
any pyre, any invocation to combustion.
I learn new forms for measuring the sea;
by sand grain, salt grain, driftwood or knot—
how many blushed pearls to launch a single
fist? I split my voice into a chorus to drive you
from your ship’s wood hull. Like fire, the sea
appears red or blue according to the length
of time that it has burned. When I utter our,
you mistake it for war. So we rebuild our ships,
face the terrible opposite shores of each other.


Date: 2019

By: Madeleine Wattenberg (19??- )