- POETRY -

ECLOGUE, REPAIRED

Julianne Neely

ISSUE TWELVE | SPRING 2019

O fucking topple over barn          I cannot believe the denotation of wind     consider stems consider how trees

stand paralyzed by H20          consider thoughtfully consideration after you release mortars on me & with your

flexors     aim our path     devout north

 

O fucking topple over barn          ticking time bomb     get off my pasture     I am cavalier & you a bit mad

clever     O deified barn     biting & comely     I know     your shitty meditations   just purchased a pistol     in Iowa

& a carton of bullets     your tomatoes     & cucumbers rising on vines enfolding     round your rods & shafts stop aiming to slip them in my casserole     I only want the reddest beef the dying     breed variety & how do you stand when I’m gone     in grandstand I     imagine     the reddest     lipstick on as if you have somewhere else to be

 

O fucking topple over barn          I beseech gore into affection of this lumber     & I call     & you need hearken

 

O fucking topple over barn          what nerve     to not be an avalanche or bellow aloud make     poetry and love to me as you     fall down     your gathering of idioms     your scriptures and guns

 

O fucking topple over barn          your cheeks will un-blush & where did we grow amiss & why     I recall

climbing your steps     laying a hand     on your railing there was stillness now     I don’t pine for you the truth is somebody built you with their hands     the reddest hands detached benign lemon eyes the     soil they lain upon pre-twanged & pre-overlaid such a notorious     liberty such a revolutionary harmony but

 

O     I     see you fucking falling           & I know expenditure differs by     god on vacant     land I sit where     there is straw and think no straw     I pray for rain     but what when all the pasture decays     my waves of grain     when

we met it was the creation of the Earth at least it appeared to be

 

O fucking fall down barn          I hath forsaken     father mother son sister     husband daughter wife     for an intimidation of     heirloom & birds and fish come listen the     wars will build enemies under your feet     & they have chosen land & hill & they say the city smells     too much of iron & they say people should not live like birds through a mouthful of worms & oak tree nearby keeps its ear planted it is almost impossible to hear wickedness as it

 

O fucking fall down barn     as the sky falls and the oceans rise

 

then spring up     & everlasting

Julianne Neely received her MFA degree from the Iowa Writer's Workshop, where she received the Truman Capote Fellowship, the 2017 John Logan Poetry Prize, and a Schupes Prize for Poetry. Her chapbook 'The Body Beside Herself' is out now from Slope Editions.

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