Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2020  Vol. 19 No. 2
an online journal of literature and the arts
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Adelma (Harrisville, N.H.)
     from elegy for simone weil

the dry-cut lane among the republics
untouched, & then—
see the buds of mute respiration—
in high definition—
one could feel Calvinism
almost affirmed—
i.e., to be hereis to settle
among preexisting algebras,
to filter through, if not
to filter—not to be the active agent—
then again, the urge or summons
to dress each wound—
the chemical flush, the interrogation—
those from the camps
are here too, I remind myself—
speak the language of numbers
in which souls partake—
(because numbers bear no wounds,
neither do they
dress or bind,
in this way they are like the angels—
(or is it poor form
to invoke the angels here,
in the presence of
such glorious machinery—
At the banquet I sat next to a woman
whose father
died, rich, & was buried here—
slender lapping of anguish
& its Arctic monodies
between which
the hawkweed, bruised, takes flight—  

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