WHOLE PELICAN

WP—6
01–22–26




Philadelphia, PA

Sloughing, Mottling
by Chris Andrew


Philadelphia, Pennsylvannia
The progress of its beating, 
the thumping, the heaving, 
and from our mouths come whispers, 
like feathers (each being plucked cleanly)
that ride the basic hem of stage curtains 
and cure a mild case of summer reading. 
The beating the thumping the heaving— 
the peeling away of stage curtains— 
the succession of all things (even stagnant memories) 
that enrapture the pressure, hold the pressure, 
imprison the pressure in a holding cell near the boiler
(is it just me or is it getting hot in here?). 

The progress— 
we’re making progress— 
when from our mouths come whispers, promises, 
roundabout wishes that weaken the knees of great summits. 
Those whispers, like feathers, 
hanging on for dear life 
as the final act pushes against the night and cries, 
“Never again, but stay here awhile.” 
Old bones, old soul, memory on memory 
and memory again, 
building layers of past spaces, past planes, 
past rumination on variations 
of The Four Seasons 
and fighting a bout of summer reading. 
That is the dream: dreaming,
daring to risk an alp of great pain 
(the threat of winter passing). 
What is the point of curtains closing 
(do they close, really?) 
and why do they carry our whispers, like feathers, 
if the progress of beating has all our problems 
covered? 

This is an act of something (the word escapes me), 
following the final act 
into its endless curiosity 
and deeming memory on memory
a pathogen like summer reading.
“All the world’s a stage,” 
all the things,
and all the heart is burning, 
making promises in whispers and hanging on
for dear life, 
hanging on to roundabout wishes 
that forever enrapture 
acts of endless layers.




© Chris Andrew