Two Poems | Loisa Fenichell

Act V, Scene IX

Inspiration comes from your folk singers: bluebirds; dresses; ripping into the mirror’s ghosted edges. I strayed from home dressed in bird-gown. Dreamt last night of you – this was my biggest moment. After so much work on myself, I dreamt of the animals you allowed to coil in your palm; the fast-paced way with which you picked at your guitar. You left and I was consumed by my collarbone. Sipped at mugs of beef broth. It was all I knew how to do: to hold myself inwards; to listen to the wind, mercurial, as it swept like a gown against the glass. We were fortunate: we never had a child together. I don’t have to wake up each morning to look upon your markings. You’re invisible now like faded teeth marks. I can sail away on a small boat. You will no longer miss me.

Act V, Scene XVI

An hour prior to dying is the most ideal time to be loved. In a park a boy cries to his sister,​​ watch the smoke, and he’s right: in the near-distance, fire grows like a tooth. People fear flame as though it were the only mark of death. I think of the bird, who each day saw the same grass, the same sprig, the same faces of the same people. The story’s called that one day I have been both the bird and the liar. The story’s called that I love as a messenger, only far less burdened. Or burdened only by fear. I am writing these words. You will put them together and understand them. I am coming from a town far away from here. The blue hues of your frayed shirt have at points appeared so grey to me. I will build whole museums for you.​​