Poetry

One Poem by Corina Copp

Our poetry editor, Wendy Xu, has selected one poem by Corina Copp for her monthly series that brings original poetry to the screens of Hyperallergic readers.

Tauba Auerbach (image via Heidi Di Vries on Flickr)

Z Helix

 

A mutual understanding that they would not resume

Lacking mirror symmetry
Each woman had constructed in her own time
reasons to justify its inevitable, unavoidable, fact
of moving (other than Eddie Fisher)
into the past. The past, at times, and
what if the stone wall were
for them both, had been, as marks a rare type
of close friendship—
badly natural. That any continuation
of the friendship would trample doubly on this badly beloved
time, then, is reason/rubble enough.

Reason, seeing as you read. Let the moments now pass
your mind indestructible.
For we’d desrv’d more.
More in a series as if your pity bent to belief

Abnormalities of saccades:
Both women had (self-)destructive
tendencies themselves—alongside of which generally
comes (self-)improvement
at almost all cost (if it is not good for you, it has to go)—
and messy, tricky, sad pasts of their own before they first met
and said to one another, breathlessly, Where have you been?
And almost depthless compassion for mistake
Often standing outside their spiral bodies
as they made
mistakes to watch
ice floes separate as rear defroster began to work
finally, Sun

cast to a hole in the ground aside begging for it. Almost
depthless capacity to accumulate regret. A side note,
I’ll have some wet fibres of our being
better with which to speak in whistle register
            Elizabeth Grosz
says art is
autonomous sensation, and I buy it
Where self and world unfold simultaneously
for the sensing subject, cradling
In step are two hunters in general

sufficiently remote from hurt or inroad
Almost depthless is a way to say we all
have our limits, no? I don’t buy
it / want / not / them, whee
That guy says The impotence of whiteness
is the cause of the spread
of facism: for a (rich) white audience, integer
lone in my checking, diffident (as Bad). Sum sad
Who’s Berardi? Sum sad, Berardi,
rlly? Sum sad I am impotent, I am
Literature, missing Ha, thumb sculpted
the point
of origin: hair-bun. When time passes over more urgent scents
of betrayal,
abandonment, chaos, confusion in a scene of love
the senses (can be) cemented.
It is better in the end to work less,
refuse confusion of persons in a scene of love
Working less is not only possible
but, achoo, necessary—
to let each other go
and have (some) peace, as if, well—bless her
And you, moreover, build some disentangled respect
and political will in a scene of love which will lead
to easy rhetoric, easy now—hair burns in an
animated still overlaid
with a soundtrack of speaking in an
A-flat-octave-6 hush over putrid fen. Psychic ability
too for both women will serve them well as spies
in World War 5, Glass-

blowing…
THE INVENTION OF, coincided with the establishment
of Roman Empire 1st Cent. BC. Birdcages an
inspiration for the vertical
construction of prison bars.
So there I am a child, asleep on a small, brown
beloved-past couch, in its fibers, multi-colored
shards of glass. Careful to rest my arms
on cushions beneath
my head, not to scrape downward in sleep
For I will get cut
While my mom I saw standing before the furnace,
a few yards
into the barn,
twirling her blowpipe, midnight.
A ball of amber light at its end. She presses it flat
on the steel marver,
moves to rest and turn in wet wood. Rounds again.
Orb of amber hisses
And steaming, over and over

…crashes extravagantly into itself now, glass
of Tauba Auerbach’s double-helix shattered after
A man (not-)got in the end
knocks it off the gallery flat with a careless swing
of his hand when he goes to hug
an old friend
of his X partner whose blonde
hair shines in contrast to
HER BLACK CAP, now refracted in fine threads
of sculpture strewn across the cement floor
AS BLUE LIGHT
and when she turns another way, to introduce
her boyfriend (all of whom tower over you), carcerant blue light
cast at a certain plant, moves into a verb.
An oblique form of the verb carcerare, meaning
to imprison.
Had been cared for, now staring at steak
as if rare. You’re a rare canard, you steak
in a cage, opal hues
in long shadow on the lawn
who cares, for darkness
about to pass—
Sounds trivial? Someone carpeted
theater space for their dance piece
and I thought, Now that’s a good idea. Noticed
as he opened the door
she went through,
and she came back. And she went on in—
phone’s you.
Knock on it glass
            Goodbye, or, good
cot.
 
I cherish my cotton underwear
I will not go back to wool
I will wear my cotton underwater
I will wash my dead with ZOOM
 
or drool, stretches art. Can’t decide dot dot.

 

 

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Corina Copp is a writer and poet based in New York.

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