Four Sublime Poems by D'or Seifer

 

The Administrator

Hair like marshes of beanie baby fur,

pruned and worn down by infant gums.

Teeth the colour of mildew in the shower

of a derelict shack in the bayou.

Our interferences

were a return to childhood.

Ever-growing run-offs,

expanding dead zones.

Your voice is a bald eagle’s cry

softening in darkness

to a bassoon’s lament for a nest

filling a shady grotto,

a poor substitute.

 

Puffer fish lips

dissect my hurt with no quarter

until “you’re smarter than you look”

passes off as a quirky compliment.

 

There’s a photo of us

inside the pharynx of a whale.

In my hadal zone I knew:

we were living in a carcass,

in that jaw about to snap.

 

 

Interference- the combination of two or more electromagnetic waveforms to form a resultant wave in which the displacement is either reinforced or cancelled.

Dead zones- low-oxygen, or hypoxic, areas in the world's oceans and lakes.

 

 

Apple (Op-Ed from an exile in Silicon Valley)

 

You took a second bite of the apple

and lost your humanity,

lost the beasts of the earth and sky,

lost the moon, the stars and the water.

lost our ancient language

and its poetry.

Instead you compile new languages.

Those of us who speak the old tongue,

your amanuenses

taking down your orders,

try to speak to you,

the new humans,

in this, the new Babylon.

 

Guard Irons

 

Your hunting oscillation,

punctuated anxiety and grief,

laughter coming to a full stop 

at the end of each sentence.  

 

The greyed armpits

of your rosy coat

cocooning you

repelled me,

an indistinct receiver

for the relentless revolution of

gangrenous digits, 

estrangements, 

recapitulations.

 

Unable to bring myself to

being, to

level,

I was a nodding puppet

on the dashboard

of our train, clunking 

towards the empty junction.

 

Beware of Ducks

Snails trailing evanescent glitter

just by virtue of going places,

reflecting the light that follows everywhere,

sinuously feeling their way around

with immense gentleness.

Having the fortitude

to carry the weight of a home

and the bravery to emerge from it

with all their fragility.

It’s dangerous to be a snail,

yet they cannot hurry.

Instead, they slowly highlight

the way,

softening the ground so others may

follow.

How hard the world must feel

to the underbelly,

how rough when poked

with soft tentacles,

reaching out to feel,

to touch,

to discover

what’s out there.

D'or Seifer contributes to poetry gatherings, such as Filí an Tí Bháin, and On the Nail. She co-runs the online poetry series Lime Square Poets. Her work has recently appeared in Skylight 47,The Galway Advertiser's Vox Galvia page, and Pendemic.