B R I T T M E L E W S K I | Monsoon 2014
List of Rivers in the United States
You are asleep. You snore words
of wisdom like Jesus Christ,
the poison on my lips is like lemon
honey. There is only one Band-Aid
left for the two of us and we bleed.
Each promise has been left
shivering in the cold dark aisle,
a shoelace untied and caked
with mud. Men have never cried
so freely. We are unrecognizable
in our dream: zippers behind
our ears, drooling IVs hang
from our veins. A river
runs through you, makes
its natural rest in the riparian
zone where a ministry of angels
lives in thatched huts.
While communicating gently
with the Coquí, they take
long walks, patrolling
the habitat, protectorate of golden
fauna. These angels keep rifles
slung lightly over their shoulders.
They steady their beads against
the glacier and whisper fragments
of psalms. They move faster
than legend. Their notebooks
are covered with crossed-out
peace signs, stoic stick figures
draped in frowns. Near the left bank,
there is a stake signaling that blood
has been spilt. The angels
are not afraid to see blood.
They are unafraid to be
the ones to open the bodies.
with all the things you’ve touched
I hold the crushed grape
in my mouth long enough
that it becomes wine.
That’s the trick: to dream.
To excuse one’s self and time.
When it doesn’t work,
when the enzymes don’t match
or clash, you die just like
the deep winter stories foretold.
Though, it was spring: the dogs
out in force, drawing us out
too to take care. I’d dreamed
you again. It had been years.
Reunions swept away like braids
of sweetgum. In the air, we walk
by one another, maybe nod.
There’s complete agreement
and no distraction, an abstract
understanding of systems inside
systems, the weightlessness
of a clang. We could finally see
the same vanishing point.
It was each other smiling back.
Britt Melewski has certain expectations which stir the acids into his blood, his cells warping like a caricature drawing of a crying boy. He has certain expectations that the dirty beastly animals go straight for the children’s legs, all the poison cigarettes be stuffed with Jell-O. His are the lights in the trees humming croaked songs of the lies of cranked television sitcoms. His myths are as false as his bitchy status. The poem is an act of removal. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s thinking. Britt Melewski is hard to say.