MC Hyland
| THREE POEMS FROM THE END

THE END

Historically painted women look in mirrors on mansion walls. No privatization no poetry. Dogs with dead deer. Who built a cheaper bridge instead. We have a canon so I can say to you I’m mad about shooting birds and animals and you can know what I mean. Vibrating historically to the music. Caring for the bodies of others while remaining to them a stranger. You were twenty and misunderstood you were forty and misunderstood. A known unknown. Hawk Attacking Partridges. Green tiles gleam as the sun goes down behind clouds. Gendered my motion suddenly in a room surrounded by rain. We wanted none of your lifestyle awards. Walking by a canal again. Every joke I could think of came from a masculine canon. The toilette of Venus. Also there have been advances in lighting technology. Who wouldn’t want to be a dead poet under these conditions. Stripping away comfort is one way to remove the face. To suddenly find you have transcribed the war. Indeed the scene of predation. I like the shapes of historical asses in paintings. Carrying it all in your stomach. Some factories keep impeccable records. Dogs with dead wolf. Blankness of their rosy faces as though so unseen. I didn’t want to parade my fragility or fidelity. A man speaking to abstractions. A single hair hangs from a gilded frame. I was watching the painters watch the women watch themselves.

THE END

A friend punched in the face on a subway platform by a man she ignored too well. What sky I wanted to say. I filled the refrigerator with food to express my love. Dissolved into sunlight. No connection between hymn and hum. A helicopter swoops in close. Watching Desk Set to stay awake for the phone call. The search bar suggests the name of a man killed by police last week. Finding an empty restaurant on the first cold night. Were you sending your love through a series of tubes. Kids in the airshaft mark a new season. As though the last three days had become a portal to Glasgow 1997. Trading up for the brighter room. The brightening noon. No connection between hymn and hymen. At the end of each night to say that was a good night. Powers of speech. Powers of horror. Have we imagined these songs of matriarchy. Waking into another orange sky. Rechecking the Online Etymology Dictionary. I made a panic soundtrack. I got right into bed. Weighted into some new gentleness. A friend of friends killed by her roommate. Leaves browning into the streets. Remembering an old anger I am suddenly in its center again. Hey goddess. Who were these people who reported once having felt safe. Who metabolized the nation as a kind of carapace. Let’s check the polls again to give a name to our unease. Like every month we waned a little toward the future.

THE END

Let this be an abject lesson. Also laughter arrives in the street. We were throwing names around as though they weighed something. Not until the shark emerges wholly can we see its clumsy construction or the machinery moving below the flesh. Rain becomes stoic. Something you know is suddenly made to appear useful. Enameled nails clicking against the table. In the country shit becomes fertilizer. Words had been spoken into the mediating organs. Here the air above the entire city. A cosmetic or cosmogonic effect. Looking for a spot in the wall to anchor to. Two women speak loudly in the library in a foreign language. The candidate’s mouth was everywhere. Also a schedule of guided walks. Having made that century a lens to clarify or to drive sunlight into scorching. Absentee from the polis. Truant of capital. Some stray notes from a nearby piano. Motions of the incoming tide turned to a haze by the film’s long exposure. Conditions of the real formed an impediment to sleep. Every two seconds another story. In the city moving through zones of urine smells and zones free of such smells. Meanwhile marooned in my cleverness I brewed a catastrophic amount of Earl Grey. How high could we count before time ran out forever. Bubbles rising in the glass. Shades pulled down at the end of the school day as in a plane landed in a sunny afternoon. The ship of reason sinks endlessly in an icy and distant sea.