Amy Dryansky: No Birds Were Harmed in the Making of this Poem
Language is fossil poetry, Emerson said, in reference to
I know not what, possibly
an aster in stony clay, a theory of light.
Something that finds its way out.
The interviewer asked if I’d ever abandoned a creative project,
and if so, did I come back to it?
Yes, I have, yes, I did, yes, that’s me
ripping out stitches, going too far with the scissors.
That’s me with the bulging bag of scraps,
humdrum of production.
My mother always said you can never have
too many good, clean rags.
Speaking of my mother,
she wanted me to find someplace else to be young.
Why don’t you do something productive? she’d mutter
as I stumbled from bed to couch
to towel on the lawn, slippery with baby oil,
not even reading a book.
We didn’t know back then what the sun could do to you…