Composition Emma Townley-Smith When I move the compass in its lazy circle Like a leaf, spiraling, Seeking to connect the lines of longitude over Russia, My hand becomes encased In an errant snow bank. I’m off by an inch, (and a season or two) And in preparation for an avalanche, I push two fingers Back against the mountain, like clay, and Where I leave my fingerprints I try to accept that I have failed. When I slide away, belly down Like the alligators below me To survey the damage, My elbow hits a desert where the Arabian Sea Has been consumed by the compass rose, And the tiny grains of sand Lodge themselves, like parasites, Among the folds of skin. I loose a sigh that brings me to the ground And topples castles in northern Italy, But I let the bricks scatter and I breathe Red dust that dyes my hair, settles on top When I lay my head In a mossy valley on the edge of Serbia. Some strands move the dust on to Germany, and brush the tips of the trees That smell like air fresheners, making The sun rise red and yellow and orange On their needles, bringing morning and The colors of age to wood. I trace the edge of Sweden with my finger, Smelling fish and people over six feet tall. I hook my finger in a net and drag a miracle To some lowly fisherman, hoping that the cosmos Is watching and will remind me not to just Evaporate from this project. I pretend that I ran the marathon along the coast, Kicking the dust up into my face and blonde hair, And that my victory dance, obscuring a border, Is the real reason that Sweden won half of Denmark. I wash my fingers of this ink and this deal In the lakes of Poland, overturning a few boaters And weekend fishermen, but I figure With the fish that chip away at my fingernails down below They’ll have better luck next time. By the time I get to Spain I’ve basically given up, and I take my pen and Slash a hole through the sky, letting Particles of dust and light rain down on their cities. The solar panels begin to churn in earnest, And thus, in destroying my work, I’ve only renewed their energy. Finally, I rest my cheek in the Zillertal, Finding one place in Austria I haven’t ruined, And when I look out over the awkward borders And mishapen fields, I realize that the world, From down below, Is beautiful.
Posted on: Sat, 27 Jul 2013 15:06:51 +0000
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