Think of the Danger: Four Poems by Thea Brown

The following poems appear in Thea Brown’s Think of the Danger (H_NGM_N, 2016).

ECHOLOCATION

___
Despite all efforts, I  can’t  find  who  invited  me
to   this    party,   though    the   houseplants   are
phenomenal:  jades  and  mother-in-law tongues
and violets in white and a pale ivy I can’t name. I
reel    from    room    to    room,    never    settling.
Everything   upholstered   in   beige   velvets   and
sage  corduroys,  floral  tapestries  bearing  bright
peonies,  or  maybe  they’re  bee  balm.  How do I
know? Outside lightens. I search for an exit.

___
On the black wall opposite the basement stairs,
a  buck’s  head peers out the half window above
the   sink   to   the   artifactual  garden  in  back.
Angular  sculptures  crafted  of  chromed   farm
equipment.   It’s   dawn,   now—the   pinks  are
pinking,  the blues milky ere solidifying to their
daytime regimen. The  rust in the  yard  refuses
all glinting. There is no sound. I find your letter
in a hatbox and read:

But can you see this, can you see this electricity? By which
I mean,  of course, my internal  lights. Pull back your gaze
from  the  tractors  and  spade  and  tell  me—what  do you
think? My  lights help me  carry  you, O, my contemporary
future.  They say,  The future will look back on this (Ahem)
As something (Ahem!) Splendid!

The glass out back is blinding, exposed in its
viable utility. By sunset, it’ll crack.

* * * *

THE GRECIAN HOTEL

An island resort with a view from the Meadow Suite, a song
for amaranth from 10th story windows, thrown Thracian vigil,
grown sinful in breakfast. This croissant’s been fruit-filled
with dryad technology yet my wave sallies forth, jonesing
for greyhounds, a citrus-y hair for the runway cut short.

The elevator’s stuck between 7 & 8. It always gets like this here.

To finish the season, tuxedoes appear and the hotel bar runs
full-packed with glamour, with lifesavers and UV lights,
with autographed fancy. How to say nothing while building
a bridge? Alternate light patterns, make pretty a thing.
Kill revelers and holidays with buckets of joy.

* * * *

THINK OF THE DANGER

every evening, songbirds
settle in the oaks, passive in
all of that

think of the danger, you out there
for you, every morning color rings
the same, thinking of little danger
birdsong, some dark sounds rolling
in, your perfect meadow’s lost
its dew for fear of bluster wrath, think
of your family, think of singing

back here, little birdsong, doleful like
your little sister eats a little coconut, gets
prepped for surgery, darker now culls daffodils
from fruit stands, irons her hair, pulls it

out, you! little lightning, little storm cloud, iron
swift ‘cross daisy fields, think
of all the little caterpillars calling out not
enough, not enough! kill your image!
get it dead! hangdog dogdead!

little lightening, show your firework
philharmonic excess! the empty sky is
full of light and light is full of fill, reflective
materials or reflection radiating lightways,
immediately accessed and gilt
framed, heaving lively under fields full
of quaint wild life                         but think

of
the
danger

think of the danger, think of it thinking
like your wonderstorm broke heavy
this time, left fractured glass,
dazed parakeets, reinvigorated
like frozen well water, like buckets
of rain, like silver ocean
mist that rises and rises
toward black pockets of sky

* * * *

ALL MY BAD DREAMS COME TO THE PARTY

Sometimes it’s too loud next door, the reverb,
Standalone. The walls begin to shed their designs.
In the past they flew into my mouth. They clambered,
Stuck. Paisley. A border of roses. A Joan Mitchell print.
Mostly I dream of a bloody nose, though last
Night it was bats. Iron-y ribbons, red and silver
Empty silos, steel sky pin droplets, the blood
Running into my mouth. I found this shiny
In the garbage, I said. A ruby and gold. And then a car
Comes with a thump. There’s no tone in my nothing,
Though last night it was bats, locked in the safe house.
I’ve got a quarter that’ll get you halfway to Gravity Hill,
You told me. I’ll need it. I was locked in there with them.

Feature image: detail from Joan Mitchell’s Grandes Carrières, 1961.