Sasha Smith

aria | for | aphrodite (pi poem)

from Earth: a

culled

unborn is yoked.

the

organ cleaved and tossed

to fields of seeded broth and Ocean

tide. in

blood: embalmed in foam,

a coalesced, low

frothy pint,

embedded sperm-oil,

weaved and thinned from wax to hail to

rain then melded hot in milky pearl:

a sweet elixir. tilted

down to sea,

it

lifts the oozing

sap.

the marbled spume, from

Caelus’ golden-copper flesh, descends.

the gloss:

a stream, a creamy crux

of life; her gown: a

globed vitrine,

a shawl of auburn

fleece; her Grecian lilt: a honeyed

alto slick with myrtle, brume, and sheen;

begins to form a vestal

god. she yields 

the

broad sickle, cleans 

the

beaded pearls of sperm

and blood, but leaves the sacs of ichor, 

scallop

shells, and flint debris to

sieve in silence. god

of sea-girt

wants, castration, love,

withholds the flaxen oysters, once

a gifted gem of essence. now a 

trace of vengeance | birth | exhumed.

Zzxjoanw (double sestina)

from grossus to gros to gross: an incline

of etymology ready to tear

at seamed languages [each column and row

bestowed with false print (a hollow baseline

or coarse roots) swallowed]. the first words are clear

but unfixed as they creep to the stemmed mouth.

it distorts old Prefix and makes her bow

to Suffix at the apex of the bank.

and though she hobbles in humble concert

to hostile crowds and dull scores, she is flanked

at all sides by slang and creole: the drouth,

of shared morphed source: a parent who deserts

a child at penrose steps. but the desert

of language – a field infertile, inclined

to lie – speaks and listens to the concert

of suckling infants abandoned by drouth

by encrusted dried nipples. the baseline

of this thirst is in the wood of the bow,

the arrow’s flint head. there the tongue tastes tears,

not milk. take the root says the mountebank,

and that route instead. Prefix – with oar – rows

down the river delta, followed and flanked

by old French morphemes. bound by sound in mouths,

cranberried on translucent lips, they clear

the path to babel, their goals not yet clear

nor in accordance of their own deserts.

undeterred old Prefix opens her mouth 

to sing chopped vowel-jewels: the hooked baseline 

for speech. her song is shrewd until the bow

is tied with consonants. and then, an incline!

a fall! the warbling notes descend and tear

through fulsome mist. the boat clips, drops down rows

of a hissing white rush. struck on the flank,

wounded Prefix follows the mixt concert,

or does she wield her sword of ore? the drouth

of goodwill is gone. sworn off at the bank

of gluttony and wealth. she doesn’t bank

on soul or think morality is clear.

it is as muddy as the wooden bow

that shoots the arrow-verb into the mouths

of clergymen who laminate baselines

of faith with monochrome texts, but desert

the poor! leave them coded blurs! still, they flank 

the aisles and fill the pews. they shout and tear

up at indecipherable hymn in rows

of cryptic runes. their blind faith is a drouth.

but noble Prefix stands and is inclined

to help the masses collect in concert

to their right to learn, to will that concert

of commune or to rob the words from banks,

so the true word of god could flow from mouths

(of the poor) not the rich soaked air that flanks

and deafens. Prefix strolls down the incline

to pronounce the annunciation, tears

the decree and sows it into silk bows,

ties it to speakers, calls it the baseline,

and teaches how to referee the rows 

of arguing subjects. language deserts

itself this time. makes its faction unclear 

of their shared origins, or their shared drouths.

is it not a grave shortage, or a drouth

to rob the orchestra of a concert?

or the honeyed voice from a songster’s mouth?

or a stadium of its cheering flank?

and is that parched absence not a baseline 

of old autocratic speakers who tear

the lineage of roots, and makes them bow 

their laurel crowns? though Prefix is inclined

to wield her sword and fight, she will desert

the stems stored in language’s ancient bank.

their spelled words will spill before scribes can clear 

the debris of etymology’s row

of amendments. speke / munth lost in a row

between monks and poets who warred in drouths

of noise against clans who lifted their bows,

tilted, then released barbs in their banks.

poltergeist! wunderlust! they won’t desert 

the tongue! so Prefix resigns and inclines

forward, with dense shield of ore to tear

the lips, the tongue, the neck, larynx, and flank.

but what is this war? and who can make clear

the distinction between both sides? the mouth?

do we take or give new words in concert

to standards of language? where’s the baseline

of integrity? is there a baseline 

in the dictionary’s columns and rows 

or are the boundaries not in concert 

to any dialect at all? poor mouth

adds tongues, but cannot decide which to clear

from his palate, or allow at his flank.

should he merge or bastardize, if incline

to survive the great crash of the wide bow

of his boat into centuries, or desert

the long voyage altogether? the drouth 

of iron conformity makes the bank 

of babel retreat to hills. gaudy tears

replace waves of lexical trade. each tear

morphs and modifies. but there’s the baseline

that lists the derivations and makes it clear 

which bold sect or ancient tribe they’re incline

to fit. yet how to know if they must row

in accordance to conversion? or bank 

on shifting standards? or if they should bow 

and swallow the kings foreign tongue? his flank 

hurries to match Prefix and her concert

of sprained sonnetto-chirrups, made from drouths

formed by soft sonatas in the desert,

or in extracted incantation mouthed

by monks. how English is English, whose mouth 

consumes the willowy fabric that tears

at all seams of culture, twists in concert 

despite discord and tension, despite rows

and invasions, or the raiding of banks,

ransacked. its historians are inclined

to waste declensions from failed cults. they bow 

to a favored system and cough to clear 

the mucus and mold speech from vocal flanks.

what came first? language or sound? the baseline 

resides between a banquet and a drouth,

so: sound. a banquet was once a desert.

drunkenness: once thirst. does language desert 

speakers and revise the shapes of their mouths?

or is speech, that thief, a malleable bank 

that plays transient roles? one: a baseline,

not of a people but a species. two: rows

of want: meant for asking distorted clear

solutions to queries. three: a concert 

of low sounds spiraling in warped paths flanked

by hoarse throats wheezing into shallow tears

of peeling chords. language is not inclined

to bend or yield in sheer disgrace. no bow

can compete with its pride. it wields bows 

ready to war with sound-senses, deserts

of sandy rhythmic loops, abrasive mouths

chafing to white. its breath flows over rows 

of teeth and tongue, grappling in a concert 

of pinnacles, troughs of sound, and the drouth 

of silence in between. it isn’t clear

to our Affix army which word to bank

its pride on. which subsect is the baseline 

of languages? which proto-tongue should tear

the chart of symbols and whose boat will flank 

the sides of desire: that abrupt incline

towards connective deserts of all men flanked

by joint banks of knowledge, by shared concerts

of verbs debriefed? each bow is our baseline,

not rows of barbs, but the grunt in our mouths,

the babbling tears of babel, the incline

of a speech-drouth that declines and clears.