1 poem
While water flowed beneath the bridge
I.
While water flowed beneath the bridge
While pearly dewdrops blazed to stars
There was my body, mute
Months beneath you
There was a moth, heart-stutterer
Voice pulled from Midwestern sky
My heart forgot to feed
Its body, moth, blood-weeping bloom
II.
Angel of glass, I shaved my head
To singe upon Lake Michigan
Kind thunder, ask me where I am
Kind thunder what I’m hungry for
III.
Ghosts of bodies on my flesh
(What, full, will fester there?)
This self, displaced lakeblood
(What roses abound underwater?)
Full fester: a single rose blooms
Full fever in algae-choked room
IV.
Riding in my jaguar
Riding in feline gut
Riding in blood-cape
Beside the Charles River
Until I’m in the lake, until I’m Midwest—
It’s all water under the bridge
*
Spiraling light from one side of land to the other
Viscera projections in terrain-collapse
—Where are you?
I conjure a hallucinatory country
Summon these men upon my shoulders / let them speak like doves
Until I hold this land is your land
Witness into blood
V.
When it hurts still I remember
My baby brother chewing a grilled cheese sandwich
Into the shape of a gun
There was a voice I braided:
Song of Solomon through my hair
VI.
Riding in my jaguar
Riding in my Pegasus
Am I too young, am I
A deck of cards with angels for each day:
Angel of Wednesday, ash in the brain
Angel, O, with mouth-lodged candle
Angel, O, candlewax out my ears
Your water: a bridge self-defeating
For my angel / my shoulders on fire
VII.
—Full throttle, fire throat
I was sixteen
While sedative, fever dream
While forehead bruised from concrete wall
I let my hair grow
I let my skin smooth
Wore my mom’s pants
And a pink bra
And a sunburn
My thighs’ stretch
VIII.
Angel of Wednesday or Ash—
Had no car to drive
Carved mammal
Had no car to drive
Through xanax snow
Had no car to drive, no matter
Tap dancing in a pasture alone
IX.
This bloodied limb
This love-make
Imaginary freeway
Twenty-two years to unlearn my flesh
I said no in blackout
Kind thunder, ask—
Who speaks through celestial gut?
X.
I said no in my jaguar
No water under the bridge
AM Ringwalt is a writer and musician. The recipient of the 2019 Sparks Prize at the University of Notre Dame’s MFA in Poetry, her words most recently appeared or are forthcoming in Bennington Review, The Kenyon Review and Queen Mob’s Teahouse. Her MFA thesis, “What Floods,” was a finalist for Essay Press’ 2018 book prize, and was longlisted for Tarpaulin Sky's 2019 book award.