Untitled by Jim Zola
from This is How My Speaking Moves Nearest portion of my sound-voice position entropy learns my go-to syllables, the rounded artifact given over as grief as through the breath I missed my father lastly let go. __________ Alone with voices, a traveling cycle, circling in dexterity to open my silence, pain, all that can be witnessed from distance’s oval oscillation __________ My mother turns her head to me, often, listens, likes the vocal contrast of my nonspeaking. More worded braids than sentences of sequential obfuscation⎯ tragedy in heirloom leaving, what was forgotten. Me, I’m made by hand: sound isn’t wandered here, here it was said I awaken to feel for the floor I’d forgotten held me cold holds my forthcoming death Go Trane’s Tunji plays in my ear, in my eye a swell begins to follow my feet around this home, one of myriad physiognomies. In each, my parents follow me, raise me, reach for me when an hour is dark and my face is abrupt in absence. I watch curtains fall into vertical reveal: __________ silver expression in the metal beak indented into the window’s achromatic spine-- __________ wandering is where I needed to go what I needed to do. Behind me now was need looking forward with me as introduction to prophecy or what roams from home to home, a hidden documentation in the whole of my parents’ oscillating eyes What Comes , or hasn’t yet, yet what’s to come, I’m expecting before dawn… before me, alight light, lit afar, focused, soft in the hand, solid. From where I’ve gone I’ve undergone translation, this home a silence of history’s going, going away from me, these breaths and mirror’s interpretive phrasing phased in fraction’s focal collaborations with what’s coming into this light and theory of desolate intuition not whole __________ Where I went, what came, followed. Light, or a theory of it followed, follows, finding me alone in the usual space: window-near, tableau explication calls my following and voice confirmation. My father arrives, though dead, smiling to the west of me to follow his example of authentic correspondence. Alive now, both of us, though my death’s been predicted in the disbelief of my behavior. __________
Felino A. Soriano was awarded the 2017 erbacce-prize for poetry. His writings appear in CHURN, BlazeVOX, 3:AM Magazine, The National Poetry Review, Small Po[r]tions, and elsewhere. His books of poetry include A Searching for Full Body Syllables: fragmented olio (2017), Aging within these syllables (2017), Acclimated Recollections (2017), and Vocal Apparitions: New & Selected Poems: 2012 – 2016 (2016).
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