What the Trash Reveals A woman’s reliquary. Whole photo albums doused in nicotine, each bit of uneaten Shepherd's pie with scissor snips, split pencils, blue crayon nubs— for don’t you know— I adore blue, in the ways it wantlessly weaves the woad soul through button holes and Cuckoo wasp mouths, in the ways it waves from waves to lonely instruments to Annie Lee to The Virgin of the Rocks da Vinci to unworn dress suspended in the shop window, in the ways it sideways ways to unblue blue moon, unblue blue plate special, unblue blue cheese— I chant— Ia dore blu. Ia dore blu. Because I am, I am. Oh ow, oh oo. In the unstratified island of the garbage, printed faces fold up with stony contact lenses and barbed stenches that howl along cupboard corners with inundated eyes bored in tears of eggshells, strawberry tops, jagged glass shards tinted brownie red. Cherry stems black tar scars scraped over plastic thing, useless thing, pretty thing, priceless thing, thing whose entire value is hung on its disposableness— in saying this— on come the philosophers, on come the skeptics, on come the mystics, on come the dystopian tirades, all their horizontal forms and lain flags and doorless rooms— I chant— Ia dore blu. Ia dore blu. Because I am, I am. Oh ow, oh oo. In the trash the slash in a single sock without its twin, the pale dust of flour swooped down like a swan’s wing. In the muck grey of snot rags, those rags my mothers, rags my fathers, rags my lovers, rags my friends, rags my priests, rags my feasts, rags my executioners that trundle in in the morning, like bright mustard teeth through the glumness, a milelong ribbon named sick, who’s sobriquets can be cutting Valentines or screamin’ meemies or blue devils or black-dog or down in the gills. The dog eats it, fittingly, oh ow, the delicious dump as if it were elixir, oh oo, tasting of chocolate cake and bloody liver, the dog’s chops smacking thumbtacks gums red, thrilled to death— thrilled. to. death.— with hunger. For don’t you know I adore blue, oh ow oh oo I a dore blu.
Renwick Berchild is half literary critic, half poet. She is lead editor of Green Lion Journal and writes at Nothing in Particular Book Review. Her poems have appeared in Porridge Mag, Headline Press, Whimperbang, Free Verse Revolution, Spillwords, Vita Brevis, The Stray Branch, Streetcake, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. She was born and raised on the angry shores of Lake Superior, and now lives in a micro-apartment in Seattle, WA. Find more of her work at http://www.renwickberchild.com