Jessica Comola
—
THE FIRE A SNARE IN THE DARK OF THE WOODS
One girl is a spider weaving home from her gut. One girl is a giggle
spider pulsing in the corner. One girl is winged like a whistling
spider, ringing a cry through fogged air. One girl is beautifully
perched, a bold outstretch of her spider legs. Spiders
patching their satinhouses.
One girl loves spiders the way a spider loves a corner in which it will stiffen and die.
What else comes and climbs like slow lightning.
One girl undresses before the rest, pulling apart her buttocks to release a fine, red scarf.
Reburying worms brought up in the rain. Reburying boats stormed up in the wharf.
One girl stands at the dawn of daylight, ushering shadows to take cover.
One girl is a bonfire, foreshadowing.
A flame for one’s eyes. A noise for one’s ears. A tongue for one’s slick throat.
Shavings of fire. Sparks in the fire. Worms and spiders both let themselves
down by wires.
THE HIDDENSEEK
Cows don’t come home here anymore, the loudspeaker shouts
In the caskets, all the grandmothers swear
into their mouths and shake their heads
A wobble bumblebee shakes her head
I am baying like a bird that ignites upon contact with the air
I feel like a hearth, old in the earth
I feel light as a drowsy curtain
I recall sleeping as an infant
A bleating ship sail sclose to the winda spossible
Weird Sisters warp in the celestial cloths of the Townsfolk Closet
Homespun lore running into everything with its scissors
Weird Sisters turn their weird Bambi heads slowly toward me
Rain descends to the earth in a magnet,
shaking the whole body like an iron in a dryer
A TIMELESS ELEGANCE CANDLE IS BURNING UP THE BED
The way things went. Take a deep breath.
Attempt to defer by sliding one leg over the next.
I’m not yet in full heat but I’m good for it.
Dress over my head, the collar rubbing.
The chatelaine collar.
The smocking bib, over my lips.
Tiny rosehips pocked along the breast.
Sleeves pull inside my throat.
Sleeve flounces. Flounce tassels. Hearts bea
ting in the base of my feet.
The dress’s garniture drawn up by the bows:
silk petticoats, crinoline petticoats, the decency skirt.
I do, I do, and I do.
Cherubim busy perfuming the mirrors.
There is a large smudge on one of the mirrors.
When I try to picture my face I can’t see it.
Cherubim wedged with teethmarks.
Cherubim sticky with plaster.
Cherubim gummed to a rail.
Cherubim scraped off the end of a dowel.
You stink! He laughed. Like soft, greenwater turtles.
Yet another dead plush and now a muddied pinafore, too.
I hold my tongue in my lap.
I hold my tongue in my hands. Bring it up to my face and smell it.
I hold my tongue in my hands and swallow its smell.
I put it back in my mouth and back in my mouth.
I put it back and bite it but it just falls back out.
Red rubber ball. Red rubber ball. Red mirror.
Later, I’ll vacuum all the mints off my pillow.
Every night my pillow grows massive clumps of hair.
Jessica Comola is a poet and multimedia artist. See more of her work at jessicacomola.com or follow her on Instagram @jlcomola
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