Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

The Starvation Artist Puts Her Mouth to Heaven

by Flower Conroy

A wishing bell resounds in the clean cut air
but is meaningless.

The drifting lover says nothing of the night-
jar’s churring—in twilight even stranger than dark’s other

sounds, as of wings or horns,
beyond the verdant herringbone of mountain-trees.

Consider the whitespace
a waterfall buried within,

the back of a mirror, where the ghost
in the machine

keeps the body here. Now the whippoorwill
is an inexplicable thing.

It turns its external ear
to the how-much-is-too-much-when-is-enough-enough-wind.

I turn & face the otherwise
empty window the panorama

stares back from. Geodesic dome, grotto of asteroids,
satellites & starlight debris,

mint-laced breadth, a feast
I eat with my eyes.